the Shadow of a Doubt
by madame.alexandra
Summary: The fact that she had to bang on his door made her feel sick; it was a bad omen. And things were already bad. Rating: M. Established-but-estranged Jibbs. Smidgen of Tiva. Angst.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is a piece that simply wouldn't get out of my head. It is based (loosely) on a combination of Michael Crichton's Disclosure, George Strait's "Write This Down", and an odd sort of Tiva influence. It is canon and not canon; set after season 3 and 4, but with nuances you just have to go with. It is deliberately vague at some points. I'm quite fond of it-and I hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>1<strong>

She stood on the stoop her head throbbing, trying to shield her eyes from the motion-sensor porch light and banging on his front door. The fact that she had to bang on his door made her feel sick; it was a bad omen—and things were already bad.

She had been shocked, a little angry, disoriented, and frightened when she turned his doorknob to open it and found her entrance impeded. His door was never locked. Leroy Jethro Gibbs _never_ locked his door.

She bit her lip, holding back a shout of frustration. She hesitated to begin screaming for him to open the door; it was dark, the lights in his neighborhood were out and she did not want to cause scene.

She wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

She slammed her open palm against the stained glass, shaking his door with the force. Pausing, she curled up her fist, raising it back—

-and the door swung open. He stood there in shadow, looking stonily annoyed. His eyes showed a hint of surprise to see here there.

Jennifer Shepard didn't give him a chance to speak.

"Why was your door locked?" she hissed desperately, crossing her arms across her midsection.

She glared at him in the early morning darkness, shivering a little. It was not even cold, but she felt cold. She swallowed hard, standing there; waiting.

"It's a habit," he grunted blankly.

"Habit?" she repeated incredulously. She lifted her eyebrows and narrowed her eyes. She and he both knew it wasn't any damn _habit_ for the door to be locked.

"When you're here, I lock it," he clarified shortly, shrugging his shoulders.

She blinked, opening her mouth and closing it. She had never noticed, and she had been here quite a lot lately. Since their relationship had started back up, it could be said she was practically living with him. Until two weeks ago, when they had hit the rocks—

"Where's your key?" he asked brusquely, giving her a look. He was clearly pissed of being attacked over his door-locking habits in the middle of the night.

"I don't have a key!"

"You don't have a _key_?"

He snorted derisively.

"The door is always _un_locked!" she shouted, her voice breaking a little.

She clamped her lips together and glared at him, shivering again. His commitment issues would keep her from having a key even if the door was always locked!

He stared at her for a minute. His brow wrinkled slightly.

"Get in the house, Jen," he said finally, apparently deciding it was worth it.

She stepped over the threshold delicately. She had not been her much in the past few weeks, and she had not been here at all since she stormed out on him four days ago. She heard him shut the door behind her and she winced; it sounded so loud.

"It's late," he pointed out.

"Did I wake you?" she snapped, her back still to him.

"No," he fired back. "Think you probably woke the dead, though," he quipped, brushing past her. His shoulder brushed hers and he pointed to the basement, jerking his head. She shook hers in response.

"I don't want to go to the basement," she said in a strained voice.

He stopped, staring at her.

"Are you okay?" he asked abruptly. He sounded slightly irritated.

She shook her head in the negative.

He started back to her slowly.

"Where's your security?" he asked suspiciously.

"I ditched them," she answered blankly.

"Dammit, Jenny!"

"Shut up, Jethro," she snapped dryly. "I learned my lesson," she muttered.

He tilted his head towards her.

"What?" he barked, his attention snagged. He came closer. She rubbed her temples and started to walk past him, intent on getting to the sofa. He took her arm, firmly enough to stop her, but not nearly roughly enough to hurt.

"Did someone hit you?" he demanded.

She gave him a confused look, her brows knitting.

"Your jaw," he said sharply. "Your jaw is black and blue," he said, reaching out.

She tilted her head away from his hand and felt the spot he indicating, wincing a little. She moved her mouth around, straining to remember.

"I don't remember," she said. She squinted. "Is it? Bruised?" she asked. She hadn't seen. She had been shaking too much to even drive, for the first few minutes after she'd woken up.

Jethro looked angry.

"It's bruised," he confirmed in a growl. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"I want to sit down," she said.

She pulled away from him and walked to the couch. She sat down, looking at the fireplace. She covered her mouth.

"Can you light a fire?" she asked.

He started at her in disbelief.

"It's _July_," he said.

"I'm cold."

He looked like he would deny it. He made a noise in his throat and stormed off, returning with a lighter. He crouched down and lit a fire, poking around for a minute. Then he marched over and sat down on the sofa, glaring at her sideways.

She put her hands on her head and ran them back through her hair, turning towards him. She held all of her hair back from her face, chewing on her lip, and then swallowed.

"I think I was raped," she said quietly.

His arm twitched. He narrowed his eyes, his jaw tightening. His face broadcasted numerous reactions before his features settled on outrage.

"_What_?" he hissed, the word snapping through his teeth like spat poison. "Raped?" he growled. "You _think_?"

She couldn't tell if the anger was directed at her.

She bowed her head and spread a palm out over her eyes, hiding her face. He reached out and wrapped his hand around her wrist, trying to uncover her.

"You _think_, Jen?" he asked dangerously. "Look at me," he snapped, dragging her hand away. "You can't '_think'_ you were raped. It isn't up for interpretation," he snarled. His hand felt tense and hard, wrapped around her wrist.

"I don't know what happened," she said in a high voice, sounding panicked. His anger was frightening her. It sounded like he was being protective, but she still couldn't discern if the anger was directed at _her_.

"Did someone touch you without your consent?" he asked harshly. She didn't answer. He turned towards her anxiously, his knee hitting hers. He reached over with his free hand and cupped her bruised jaw, drawing her head towards him. "Answer me, Jenny!" he ordered.

"I cannot remember!" she burst out, her breath catching. "I was drunk. I woke up in the backseat of my car," she said shakily. She closed her eyes, shaking her head. "I was at a bar, a few men hit on me," she trailed off, lifting her shoulders. "_I don't know_."

"You know something!" he insisted. "_Something_ makes you think you were raped!" He grit his teeth and tilted her head up, eyeing the bruise. It was getting darker, taking up residence on her face. "You get slipped something?"

She shook her head in frustration.

"I don't let men buy me drinks," she insisted shortly. "I don't—I might have passed out," she broke off, lifting her head. "I was really drunk, Jethro," she said, her voice cracking. "Scary drunk. Blind drunk."

She tried to convey it. She had been drinking—drinking enough to hand her keys to the bartender when she sat down. She had gone out specifically to do such, because at home she felt the weight of her job, and she hadn't felt comfortable or willing to come here, to him, because of their fight and because _he_ was why she needed to drink in the first place.

"I don't give a damn how drunk you were!" he barked, lowering his hand. He caught her eye forcefully. "You can't consent if you were unconscious! What happened, Jen?" he asked savagely. "_Who laid a hand on you?"_

She scoffed.

"I can't even remember the _bartender's_ face," she snapped derisively. It wasn't as if she could give him a name so he could gallivant off on a white horse to beat the shit out of whomever they were talking about.

His hand slipped to her waist, touching her gingerly. He laid a hand on her thigh intimately, soothingly.

"Don't touch me," she said sharply, shying away.

He drew his hand back as if he had been burned.

"I'm evidence," she said grimly, holding herself away from him.

Jethro clenched his fist.

He was starting to sweat; the fire she had made him light was making the room hot as hell. She didn't seem to be affected. She was pale, her hands were shaking. The ugly bruise glowed eerily in the firelight.

"I don't know if it was rape," she said dully.

"Jen—" he began.

She shook her head abruptly.

"—or if I want to think that because if it wasn't, then I fucked some stranger," her voice cracked.

She covered her mouth, a sour look crossing her face.

She swallowed. She lowered her hand.

"I need a rape kit."

"No," he said stubbornly. "Tell me what happened."

"I don't—"

"Now, Jen," he interrupted sharply. "Right fucking now," he demanded. "What you remember," he ordered. "Some bastard hit you in the jaw, Jenny, you can't have consented!" He rationalized, pointing up to her face. "Unless you're into something I don't know about?" he asked rhetorically; sarcastically.

She looked at him, her lips parted, thinking about the bruise.

She flicked her eyes to her feet, nodding.

"I wouldn't let someone hit me," she murmured.

He nodded curtly. He knew she wouldn't. He knew what Jenny liked—he knew everything she liked. She didn't get off on abuse. She liked rough sex, but there was a distinct difference between going at it against a bookshelf in her study and cold-cocking her in the face.

She clasped her hands together in her lap.

"I took a half day at work," she murmured.

"Skip that part," he interrupted bluntly. "I know you left."

He knew because he had pointedly pretended not to give a damn.

She closed her eyes, and moistened her lips.

"I went home, and then I went out," she suddenly felt very reluctant to tell him any of this. It was personal. Her decisions were her decisions, and a bad one had probably gotten her in trouble. It was none of Jethro's business.

"You gave your guys the slip," he prompted angrily.

"I dismissed them," she snapped. "If I am not under direct threat and I am off the clock, I have quite a bit of leeway," she explained hotly.

"There are people out there aiming to hurt you, Jen!" he reprimanded, annoyed.

"There are people in _here_ who hurt me!" she lashed back, glaring at him. Referring to 'in here' was abstract; she didn't literally mean inside his house, but she wanted to convey to him that she had been trying to escape.

He leaned back, as if repelled by the dig; he knew it for what it was. He knew their fight the other night had shaken her; hell, it had shaken him—but he was too stubborn to deal with her stubbornness about it all.

She chewed on her lip, gripping her wrist. Her knuckles turned white. She squinted her eyes.

"I only _remember_ two shots of Patron," she murmured, almost to herself. She squeezed her eyes shut again, still biting her lip.

She opened her eyes dejectedly.

"I woke up in my car," she repeated dully. "I was dizzy, disoriented. I threw up, sat against my tires on the cold concrete for half an hour, and drove here."

Her voice was flat. There was nothing to her story, _nothing_. He ground his teeth together, running his hand over his mouth. He struggled to suppress the rage boiling in his gut; he had no one to direct it at, but it was there. Regardless of the fractured nature of their relationship, someone had injured Jenny—and it was instinctive, primal: he wanted to break the son of a bitch's neck.

Jenny was touching her cheek and then looking at her hand. There was nothing there; it was a gesture someone would make if they were feeling for blood.

"I didn't see the bruise."

He studied her. There had to be something. If her memory was so blank, what was it that had made her stumble into his house at this hour and declare up sexual assault? He leaned closer, and she leaned back.

He noticed the movement, but he did not think Jenny did. She moved away as a reaction. It stung him; he made a noise under his breath.

"And you think you were raped?" he prompted edgily.

A nod.

"Jenny," he growled, pushing her. "Why?"

Suddenly, she wouldn't look at him.

"The position I woke up in is not when I generally find comfortable to sleep in," she said tightly.

"What position?"

"Propped up against the car door, one leg hanging off the seat, my skirt was," she paused, "hiked up."

He suddenly looked down at her attire, because he hadn't yet.

Casual business attire; her usual. Her clothing was all rumpled. He reached out to her shirt and she lifted her hand to block him. He pushed her hand aside gently, grasping at her oxford. She was missing buttons. She looked down and fingered the frayed edges.

Slowly, she tugged down the collar, revealing a purplish-red mark below her collar-bone, situated above the edges of her bra.

"Bite mark," she muttered.

His expression darkened; blackened as if doused in soot. He swore.

She held her knuckles to her nose, drawing in a sharp breath.

"My panties are gone," she said, speaking through her hand.

He looked at her sharply, straightening.

"Stolen?" he demanded.

She closed her eyes.

"I don't know," she said, for what seemed like the thousandth time that night.

He clenched a fist on his knee, pushing his tongue against his clenched teeth. He sighed harshly, and stood abruptly, turning to face her.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asked. There was an edge of courtesy to his voice, as if he were trying to be delicate. He lifted a brow, not in mockery or in a light tease, but in urgency; he didn't want to waste time.

She looked up at him, her cheeks flushing. She was pale and flushed simultaneously, and it made her look sick. Her eyes were large and wet. He noticed her press her knees together.

"I'm sore," she answered carefully. "But I'm sore sometimes after we have sex."

He crouched in front of her.

"No," she said sharply. She looked smaller, holding out her hand towards him. She put her palm on his chest. "Jethro, don't touch me."

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"I don't want you to touch me. Don't touch me, Jethro," she said again, panic rising in her voice. She moved over and stood up, still holding her arm out. She shook her head as if to reinforce the point.

She closed her eyes, and suddenly felt dizzy, like her head was being slammed against something. Something flashed in her mind's eye; she heard the sound of a zipper too loudly, and saw a brief, fuzzy image of a leering smile.

Her eyes flew open and she gasped.

She tried to breathe.

"Jen," he was saying quietly. He picked his way gingerly over to her, holding up his hands to show he was no threat to her.

"Take me to a hospital," she said matter-of-factly. "I need a rape kit," she said again.

She pushed her hair back and her face blanched. She dashed for the kitchen; he heard her retching moments later.

Jethro turned and slammed his fist into the nearest object. He yanked his phone from his pocket and dialed DiNozzo.

"_Good hello morning? Boss? It's sleep-time," _murmured DiNozzo after a few rings.

"DiNozzo," snapped Gibbs. "Get your ass out of bed. Meet me at Bethesda Naval Hospital," he barked.

"_Boss, what_—"

He hung up with DiNozzo as he was walking into the kitchen.

Jenny was bent over the sink, her forehead resting on the countertop.

He started to reach out and touch her, but recoiled.

He was irate; the anger was making his head pound. He noticed she had a touch of blood on the back of her head, but he refused to touch that, or examine what wound it may have leaked from.

He stood there, adrenaline making his hands shake slightly as he held back from touching her while she stood there, her head bowed, hiding from him.

His emotions didn't mesh; they conflicted. It was all varying levels of anger.

He knew in the back of his mind some of that anger was directed at her.

He was angry she was hurt, angry her security had failed, angry someone had touched her—angry she had drank so much, angry she had been so stupid, angry that she might have—

Her shoulders heaved; she was crying.

Still, he didn't touch her. No comforting hand on the back of her head, or kiss pressed to her shoulder.

He couldn't. She wouldn't let him.

She didn't want him to touch her.

And that, too, made him angry.

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><p><em>Updates will be posted Tuesdays, night or day depending on my mood. <em>

_Credit to Miss Mila for playing Beta even in the midst of her IB classes and her own writing._

_-Alexandra_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: It's NCIS Tuesday again! Well, you readers seemed interested, so I'm happy to post the next chapter. It seemed to put people on edge more than I thought it would-but I'm not complaining. I do think of it as a somewhat of a mix between 'Orchid Thief' and 'Caged Redhead'. _

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><p><strong>2<strong>

A door slammed.

Jenny Shepard winced. She folded her arms across her chest, swallowing slowly. She felt nauseous and her head ached. A pang of guilt swept over her as she paced from the bathroom to the impersonal hospital bed.

She heard muffled, sharp snatches of conversation. Across the hall, Gibbs was berating her security. She had seen him storm out when the two of them arrived. She could catch the occasional word now.

It wasn't their fault, and they were going to take it in stride. Neither would admonish her, nor say a word.

She wouldn't dare try and stop Gibbs, though. He had hardly spoken to her for an hour now; he was pissed. It had been a long time since she had seen him this pissed.

Jenny pushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear and leaned against the edge of the bed. She looked around the sterile room and rested her teeth on each other, pressing down lightly. She closed her eyes briefly.

The door flew open and Gibbs stormed in. He turned his back to her briefly, and when he turned back around, his expression was blank; almost calm.

"They check the back of your head?" he asked sharply.

She nodded, crossing her arms again.

"I have a concussion."

Gibbs swore under his breath.

He approached her slowly, his eyes meeting hers. When he stood in front of her, he cupped her chin in his palm and looked at her jaw, his blue eyes narrowing. He stroked a thumb over the bruise. It was just now beginning to hurt her. She shied away slightly.

He pulled his hand away. They looked at each other for a moment.

"I hate this gown," she snapped, lifting her arm. She looked distastefully at the paper immodesty she was wearing. He glanced at her.

"Your clothes are evidence," he said bluntly.

She gave him a look.

"It's procedure," he said.

"I know it's procedure," she said icily.

He stayed quiet, glancing behind him.

"They said you sent them home," Gibbs said, jerking his head at the door. She assumed he meant her security, and nodded slowly.

"I did," she agreed. "One of them has a new baby."

"They thought you were in for the night," Gibbs said shortly.

"I told them I was," she answered delicately. "I do not like to be babysat."

"It's for your own good, Jen," Gibbs growled.

It was as if he were saying 'I-told-you-so'. She looked at him for a minute, and then dropped her gaze, unable to hold it. She twitched her nose and lifted her head, looking off to her right so she wouldn't have to look at him.

"Did the rape kit turn anything up?" she asked blankly.

Gibbs shifted.

"Semen," he answered after a pause. "Couple hairs."

Jenny looked at her fingernails.

"There was skin under your nails," Gibbs said, tapping her fingers gently. "It could be yours, if you had an itch. Abby'll look."

Jenny nodded. She squeezed her eyes closed and when she opened them, they were wet. Gibbs stood before her, unsure of what to do. He didn't feel like comforting her. He felt despicable; he was still angry, but he was suspicious and intolerant, too.

Jenny reached up and rubbed her forehead, covering her face.

"You remember anything?" Gibbs asked guardedly.

She shook her head.

"No."

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><p>It was a bad feeling; an insidious feeling.<p>

Gibbs paced the hall outside the hospital door, leaving Jenny to a discharge nurse. He spared a passing, stony glare for her security, and eyed the entrance, waiting for DiNozzo to show up.

His jaw ached.

He felt bitter and vengeful. He didn't like Jenny saying she'd been raped—in his line of work, he'd seen rape before, he had dealt with raped women—but none of them had been, for lack of better characterization, _his_ woman.

And here he stood, facing a murky and indecipherable situation, one in which Jenny could have been assaulted—or she could have just been piss-drunk and stupid—he faced a situation that had him struggling with dark thoughts, thoughts he didn't want to face.

He turned his back on the hope he was trying to ignore; it nauseated him to realize that he might be hoping Jenny had been raped, because then he wouldn't have to accept that she had run off and slept with another man.

They had fought—but they fought constantly. It's how they worked—or didn't work; it depended on whom you asked. When she had left—or he had shouted at her to get out [he didn't remember] he hadn't thought it was over. They had never said it was over.

These waters were uncharted. He knew Jenny would never cry 'rape' if she didn't believe she had reason to. He didn't know which prospect pissed him off more—that she had been raped, or that she had cheated.

No; he knew which one pissed him off more. There was no use pretending. Regardless of the state of their relationship, if anyone had touched Jenny against her will, Gibbs would kill them.

"Boss?"

Groggily, DiNozzo trudged into the hallway, his hair sticking up in about five different directions. His shirt was half tucked in. He had his badge around his neck. Sleep was still in his eyes.

Next to him, looking blearily alert, was Ziva. She looked clean and neat as usual.

"Where's McGee?" Gibbs asked, annoyed. He wasted no time with greetings.

"Oh, McTim," mumbled Tony. "Did you want me to call McTim?"

"DiNozzo," snapped Gibbs. He swatted him upside the head. "Wake up. You called her," Gibbs pointed at Ziva sharply.

Ziva didn't even blink.

She looked at Gibbs silently, her eyes intent.

"Nope," DiNozzo said, blinking. "Didn't have to call Zee, she was—uh," DiNozzo broke off, suddenly very wide away. "Uh-oh," he muttered. He swore under his breath.

"Ahhh, Jesus, Tony," muttered Gibbs, realizing what was going on.

He glared at them both.

Ziva's facial expression did not move. DiNozzo blanched.

"Rule twelve," Gibbs grunted obliquely. "Call McGee. Tell 'im we've got an early start. Ziva," Gibbs said, beckoning sharply.

"I take it the victim is not deceased?" Ziva asked mildly.

"Ya think?" Gibbs growled intolerantly, glancing pointedly around the hospital.

"What have we got?" Ziva asked, unfazed.

Gibbs stopped and turned to the Israeli, tilting his head towards the hospital door.

"Rape victim," he said bluntly.

Ziva turned her head, peering through the class. She took in her breath quietly and lifted her eyebrows, turning back to Gibbs.

"Jenny?" she asked, her voice caught.

He nodded curtly.

"She doesn't remember anything."

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><p>This was a case, literally and figuratively, where Leroy Jethro Gibbs did not know quite where to start.<p>

By the time the team arrived at NCIS, normal working hours had begun.

Ziva had managed to acquire Jenny work appropriate clothing, and when the Director and Agent Gibbs stepped off the elevator together with Officer David, and Agents DiNozzo and McGee in tow, no one else milling around the building thought twice about it.

It was common knowledge that Director Shepard played favorites with the Agents, and she certainly liked most of Gibbs' team best.

The only difference that might have been noted was that Agent Gibbs' hand was placed firmly against the Director's lower back—but even that wasn't somethin' to talk about; it was also common knowledge that the Director and Agent Gibbs were sleeping together.

No one cared anymore. It was old news.

"McGee," Gibbs said in a low voice. "Take the rape kit to Abby. Tell her to run the blood, check for fingerprints…" Gibbs waved his hand. McGee was nodding vigorously; he didn't need to be told what to do.

"DiNozzo, bring the Director's car around to evidence," Gibbs ordered. "Abby needs to go over the back seat."

Jenny made a noise under her breath. She rolled her eyes.

Shoulders back, she lifted her chin and headed for the stairs.

"Hey," Gibbs said, a little too loudly. A few people looked. He shook his head slowly, beckoning with his finger. "Huh-uh," he reprimanded quietly.

"I have work to do."

"Not today."

"The world didn't stop spinning because of this," Jenny hissed down at him, aware people were looking.

"You have a report to give," Gibbs reminded her simply, nodding down the hall to the interview room.

Jenny took two steps back to level ground with him.

"I told _you_," she began.

"It can't just be me, Jen," he said, lowering his voice.

She tilted her head, mashing her lips together. He was right; it could compromise things in the future. She nodded curtly. Gibbs turned and marched down to Interview. The atmosphere on the main floor seemed to shift a little.

At this point, the employees of NCIS were aware that this was not the start of a typical day.

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><p>Jenny took the coffee Gibbs handed her though she knew it would be unsatisfying. It was cheap, black, office coffee and she wanted something better, but her head was hurting and she needed to remain alert—so she drank.<p>

Ziva pressed the tip of a pen to a notepad in front of her, tilting her head.

Jenny leaned back, raising her eyebrows at the other woman and waiting. She knew how this worked; she had been in Ziva's position. She had never quite imagined that she would end up on the opposite end of the spectrum, but plenty of things had happened to her that she had never anticipated.

Gibbs lounged somewhere behind her, his hand on his knee, watching the proceedings like a hawk.

"Begin with your decision to go out yesterday," Ziva suggested mildly. She shrugged her shoulders. "July twenty-third."

"I took a half day from work," Jenny said slowly. "I intended on finishing my work at home, but I could not focus properly. When I abandoned official business, I dismissed my security."

Ziva nodded.

"Did you 'escape' from them?" she asked wryly.

Jenny grinned slightly.

"No," she answered pointedly. "I told them to go home. They have better things to do than watch me sit in my study."

"But you did not sit in your study," Ziva pointed out.

Jenny gave her a look.

"I went out," was all she said.

"What time did you leave your house?" Ziva asked.

Jenny titled her head back, reaching up to touch her neck.

"Five o'clock. I told my housekeeper not to cook."

"And where did you go?"

Jenny looked blank for a moment. She splayed a palm over her coffee cup and glanced over her shoulder at Jethro, narrowing her eyes.

"Jenny?" prompted Ziva.

"Um," Jenny responded, clicking her tongue. She tapped her finger, and then snapped. "Anti-Federalist. A-Fed. "

"Well, jeez, Jen, anyone would forget a name like that," muttered Gibbs.

Jenny and Ziva glared at him.

"Comments from the peanut celery are not necessary, Gibbs," Ziva remarked.

Gibbs looked at her in mild surprise, partly because she had sassed him and partly because—well, she had just said peanut celery.

"Gallery, Ziva. Peanut Gallery," Jenny offered under her breath.

"Oh. Noted," Ziva remarked.

Jenny raised her eyebrow. She took a drink of her coffee.

"How many alcoholic drinks did you consume at the establishment?"

Jenny rubbed her forehead. She dropped her face into her palm for a moment, furrowing her brow. She came up with only what she had already told Gibbs, and shook her head dejectedly.

"I only remember tow shots of Patron," she murmured.

"That is…a type of bourbon?" Ziva queried.

"Patron is tequila," corrected Gibbs.

"You did not drink bourbon?" Ziva asked, cocking her head curiously.

"No," growled Jenny. "Is that important, Officer David?" she asked.

Ziva blinked at her brazenly, clearly unimpressed by the barb.

"I suppose not," Ziva remarked. "I have always thought you held liquor well. Perhaps it is only Bourbon," she said a little icily.

Jenny looked at her balefully, and then stared into the brown confines of her coffee cup, biting the inside of her cheek.

"You only remember two shots, yet you know you had more to drink?" Ziva inquired.

"I drank a lot," Jenny answered dryly.

"Enough to intoxicate you?"

Jenny nodded curtly.

"You are positive you cannot remember anything else you had? If you close your eyes, think of a smell perhaps?"

Jenny closed her eyes and covered the coffee cup.

When she opened them, she tilted her head, squinting thoughtfully.

"A Jager bomb," she remembered. "And an Orgasm."

Ziva looked up. She stared at Jenny, and then looked at Gibbs.

"I think I am confused about the definition—"

"It's a shot, Ziva," Jenny said, saving her the trouble.

Gibbs just cleared his throat.

"I do not want to know what is in it."

"That is why DiNozzo isn't doing this interview," Jenny pointed out.

"Also, I am a female and Gibbs likes me better," Ziva retorted bluntly.

Jenny smirked.

"Ziver," Gibbs growled. "Move it along."

"Yes," Ziva agreed. "Is it safe to say you had other drinks besides," Ziva looked at her notes, "the two shots of Patron, the Jager bomb, and the Orgasm?"

"Yes," Jenny answered dully.

"Did anyone buy you a drink?"

"No."

"Is it possible someone bought you a drink after you were drunk?"

Jenny sat up some. She tilted her head.

"It's possible," she said slowly. "But I generally don't accept drinks from strangers even when I'm drunk," she said. "There were mostly women in the bar."

Ziva leaned forward, tilting her head at Jen. She glanced at Gibbs.

"A woman could have assaulted you."

Jenny shook her head. It was more of a horrified twitch. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut.

"No," she hissed. "Male." Jenny reached up and touched her face, brushing knuckles against her jaw. She winced. "He had facial hair; scratchy," she said. She turned in her chair, looking at Gibbs.

He had a fist clenched. He looked at her guardedly.

"Director," Ziva said pointedly. "What events lead you to believe you were raped?"

Jenny sighed. She leaned back in the chair and stared at Ziva unhappily for a moment. She no longer felt like talking about this. She wanted to go home and crawl up in bed—briefly; the thought occurred to her that she didn't want to be alone.

"I don't remember anything," she said softly, with a helpless shrug. "That in itself—" she stopped. "I was drunk. I've been drunk before. I usually remember, after some coffee. I don't this time."

"You believe someone slipped you something? A roofie?"

"I don't know," Jenny said dully.

She reached up and touched her jaw, pressing her fingertips to her temple.

"I blacked out. I woke up sick, hurting, splayed in the backseat of my car," she paused, lowering her voice. She didn't know why she did so; Gibbs had already heard most of this. "My panties were missing."

Ziva nodded curtly. She looked up. She seemed to be asking Jenny something silently. Jenny shook her head slightly, and Ziva nodded again, remaining silent.

"What did you do when you woke up?" Ziva asked.

"I vomited," Jenny responded dully. "I sat on the concrete by my car, trying to sober up or wake up or," she shrugged. "I drove to Agent Gibbs house. I had a rape kit done."

Ziva leaned back.

She studied Jenny.

Jenny took a drink of coffee, ignoring her friend and former partner's look. She was tired of being looked at. She was so tired. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to go home. She wanted to figure out if when she thought of home, she was thinking of her house or Jethro's.

"Was there anyone at the bar who struck you as odd, Jenny?" Ziva asked. "Anyone who behaved suspiciously, who could have tampered with your drink?"

The redhead just stared at Ziva for a long moment.

"I don't remember, Ziva."

"Is it possible the bartender did something to your drink?" Ziva pressed.

"I," Jenny paused. A concerned look crossed her face. "I—no. He was friendly. I think I knew him," she shook her head, sighing in frustration. "I don't know."

It was all she seemed able to say. Ziva nodded. She folded her notepad closed and looked at Gibbs. Gibbs was busy watching the Director, and so Ziva cleared her throat discreetly.

"You're done," he said roughly. "Tell Cynthia to clear the Director's schedule, on my orders." Ziva stood up, nodding. It was a testament to how heavy the situation was that Jenny did not at all protest the cancelling of her plans. "And Ziva," Gibbs said.

"Gibbs?" Ziva asked.

"Shake 'em up a little at this bar. Pull their security tapes. Take DiNozzo."

Ziva just nodded again. She slipped out quietly.

Jenny stood up abruptly, brushing invisible wrinkles out of her slacks and straightening her collar.

"I will deal with Cynthia myself," she said calmly. "She won't take an order like that from you."

"Your security's already told her what's going on," Gibbs informed.

Jenny looked angry; upset. Her eyes were red; she looked exhausted—and the bruise on her jaw didn't look any better.

His judgment on the situation was slowly coalescing into a firm opinion; his gut was telling him that something was wrong. Jenny may have been drunk; she may have made a bad decision, but his skin was crawling—and he knew this wasn't a matter of an inebriated, unfaithful tryst.

She had been raped, though there wasn't any of the television-glorified violence and battery to this crime; she had been victimized in a far subtler manner. He could see it in her eyes—and he could see that she wasn't even convinced.

He was mad. He was _furious_. He hated that he had ever considered she might be lying—that she was capable of trying to cover up careless sex with a story like this. He hated, too, that he had entertained a preference for _this_ over drunken cheating.

She looked at a loss for what to do.

"Jenny," he said gruffly, breaking the silence. "I'll drive you home."

"I don't want to go home," she said sharply.

"You okay?"

She shook her head slowly.

"_No_," she asserted firmly. "The rape kit turned up semen," she said in a rush, her eyes widening a little. "Some—some _stranger_ was in my car last night—inside of _me_, and I don't know who it was and or what he _had_ and he didn't use a condom—" she stopped, choking, putting the back of her hand to her lips.

Gibbs twisted around, looking for a bucket or a bowl or—hell, even a flower pot—for her, but there was nothing, and she seemed okay. She looked green, but she didn't get sick. She pressed the heel of her hand under her eye.

Gibbs crossed the room. He wrapped an arm around Jenny's shoulders. It was the first time he had touched her affectionately since they had fought two weeks ago. He hugged her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

He didn't say anything. There wasn't really anything he could say.

* * *

><p><em>-Credit to <span>Miss Mila<span> for Beta work._

_-Alexandra_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Just to forewarn, there's a distinctly abnormal (for me) bit of Tiva in this story. It's just what was in my head. Getting into longer chapters now. _

* * *

><p><strong>3<strong>

"I do not like it when you drive. Why do you get to drive?"

"Because I have the keys, Zee-_vah_."

Ziva David grumbled incoherently. She rested her elbow on the car door and placed her fingers against her temple, watching the DC streets roll by languidly. Tony drove so slowly.

"So, uh, I guess Gibbs knows," Tony remarked ominously.

Ziva snorted.

"You were not particularly subtle."

"Hey, I was _sleepy_. _You_ didn't _help_," he muttered.

Ziva remained quiet thoughtfully.

"You are a fool if you think Gibbs has not known we sleep together," she decided, shrugging her shoulders carelessly. "I believe he, of all people, recognizes the signs."

"Well then why didn't he yell at us, Zee-_vah_?"

"Simple. He could easily pretend he was unawares until _you told him point blank_."

"It _wasn't_ point blank! I was sleepy!" Tony protested childishly.

"Do not worry so much," Ziva said blandly. "It is just sex."

Tony glanced at her.

"Yeah. Okay," he said under his breath, nodding to himself.

He looked around him, glancing at the car's GPS.

"Where is this place?" he asked himself, squinting.

"It surprises me that Gibbs chose to stay behind," Ziva remarked. "I would think he would be leading the charge, considering the Director's involvement."

Tony shook his head furiously.

"Huh-uh. Nope, not a chance. He knows he can't," DiNozzo answered rapidly.

Ziva looked at him, interested.

"He cannot? What are you saying, Tony?" she asked, her brow furrowed.

"He's sleeping with Jenny."

"Yes," Ziva said slowly, agreeing. She still watched Tony expectantly.

"Yes, so, he can't handle it. Jenny's his girl."

"His _girl_?" Ziva snorted derisively. She glared at Tony. "The Director is _not_ Gibbs' possession."

"No, Ziva I mean—you know, his girl. He's protective of her, and he's pissed someone touched her like that; he knows he can't be objective. He'd probably shoot anyone who might've looked at her funny," Tony explained, narrowing his eyes.

Ziva tilted her head, mulling over his words.

Tony's expression was dark.

"Do you feel the same way?" she asked him.

Tony glanced at her.

"Don't you?" he challenged sharply. "She's one of us," he said. He clenched his fist on the steering wheel. For a moment, it looked like he might say something. "The son of a bitch just better hope Gibbs never does get a hold of 'im," he said, seeming to settle.

Ziva settled back into her chair, nodding.

She stared out the front windshield.

"It'd be like if someone raped you," DiNozzo said suddenly. He glanced quickly at Ziva. "You know I'd shoot them, right? I'd do the White Knight thing. I'd massacre the bastard."

Ziva could not quite tell if DiNozzo was being funny or unleashing a threat borne of stress and anger at the case. She considered that it might be both. Tony often used misplaced humor to deal with horrible situations.

"No you would not," Ziva said quietly.

"You don't think I'd defend your honor?" he retorted, half-offended, half-serious.

She moved her jaw slightly.

"You would not," she answered slowly. "Because you would not have the chance," she continued coldly. "Because I would find the person who did it. I would find him, and I would implement every method of torture that Mossad taught me and yet told me never to use."

* * *

><p>Abby Sciuto rubbed a Q-tip in a firm but gently way on the interior of Director Shepard's car.<p>

"McGee, you can turn the lights on," she said.

She slipped the Q-tip into an evidence tube and crawled back out of the black Suburban, her platforms clicking on the garage concrete when she stood. She held up the two evidence tubes.

"Fluids?" McGee asked distastefully.

"Fluids," confirmed Abby. "Plural," she added darkly. She held up another tube. "This one's blood. The other two are unidentified—semen, I think."

McGee looked at the evidence tubes unhappily.

"You think there were two assailants?" he asked dreadfully. "How can you tell just from the luminal?"

"I can't," she answered. "But the dried patches are on different parts of the car, and I would much rather be thorough. It could very well be the same person."

McGee nodded.

"Run it against the semen and DNA from the rape kit."

"You think I should? I never would have thought of that Timmy," Abby answered sarcastically.

McGee gave her a look. He peered inside the Director's car.

"Find anything else worth knowing?"

Abby shrugged. She leaned over and picked something up in her gloved hand.

"The Director sheds," she said, holding up a long strand of red hair. "A _lot_."

McGee made a face. He didn't really want to discuss the Director's hair care problems. Abby took his disgust in the wrong way, her eyes widening.

"Oh, McGee, don't worry—this is a hair from her head," she started to assure him.

"ABBY!" he hissed, looking shocked. "I—I _know_ that!" he spluttered, his cheeks flushing.

"Oh," was all Abby said. She shrugged, looking completely unfazed, and brushed the red hair away. They turned towards the evidence table and McGee nearly jumped out of his skin, almost surrendering to a DiNozzo-esque squeal.

"Gibbs!" he spluttered.

Gibbs glared at him.

"Gibbs!" Abby piped up happily. "How long have you been standing there?" she asked brightly, her smile faltering a little.

Gibbs didn't answer. He looked at the evidence vials in Abby's hands and raised his eyebrow. She held them up.

"I recovered more genetic material from the backseat of the Director's car," she explained. "I'll see if it matches the semen from the rape kit. I took two samples, just in case. I also found blood. I'm running it in case we can get a blood identification for the assailant, but I think it's the Director's," Abby frowned, her pigtails and demeanor both considerably less bouncy suddenly.

Gibbs nodded curtly.

"You get anything else?"

Abby nodded.

"The skin from the Director's fingernails and the semen have the same DNA. I'm running it through the systems now, but I don't have any reference points or a sketch, so it might take a while to get any match if there even is one."

"Find anything in the Director's blood?" Gibbs asked.

Abby opened her mouth and closed it. She hesitated.

"Gibbs, I can't find anything in it yet. It hasn't been long enough," she said quietly.

"That isn't what I mean," he growled. Abby thought he was talking pregnancy hormones or STDs—things he hadn't even thought of until she misunderstood him. He set his jaw tightly and narrowed his eyes, pausing.

She closed her mouth, looking sad.

"You find GHB? Any kind of substance that might have knocked her out?" he corrected.

"Oh," Abby said softly. "_Oh_, I thought," she shook her head. "I'll do that right now," she said firmly, nodding her head.

Gibbs swore silently. His personal connections to Jenny were already hampering this investigation if Abby had taken his order to scrutinize Jenny's blood in the wrong way.

"I want to know what her BAC is," he growled. "If she was that drunk, she's not over it yet," he said bluntly.

Abby nodded.

"McGee," Gibbs said, turning to him.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Go back to work on the Skaric case," he ordered.

He was keeping a lid on this for as long as possible. There was no reason for chaos to break loose inside the agency—and there sure as hell was no reason for the press to get wind of this before they had figured out how to deal with it.

Gibbs turned to leave.

"Gibbs," Abby called, shuffling up to him. Her chains jingled as she walked. She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. "Give this to the director," she whispered, pressing her forehead into his shoulder.

Gibbs took her shoulders gently and extricated himself, staying quiet. After a minute, he said:

"You give it to her, Abs."

* * *

><p>"Do I need to reschedule all of this a few days in the future? Or is everything on indefinite hold?" Cynthia couldn't seem to get a straight answer out of either of the Director's security agents this morning. They continued to look at each other and be vague.<p>

It was so frustrating and counterproductive that she was actually glad with Agent Gibbs barged in.

"Agent Gibbs," she said, relieved.

"Put it on hold," he said, apparently having caught the tale end. "Anything that isn't absolutely necessary."

Cynthia sat down at her desk, pulling up a schedule on her computer.

"Define that, Agent Gibbs," she said.

He pushed past the security agents brusquely, saying not a word. His body language suggested he was still pissed at them. He leaned down next to Cynthia, squinting at the small print on her computer.

"Cancel," he said, pointing to the screen. "Cancel, cancel—"

"Gibbs," Cynthia broke in uncertainly. "I can't just cancel. I have to tell these people something. You're asking me to stop her budget meetings, her lobbyist meetings—"

"Yeah, anything on the Hill, shut it down. Anything outside of NCIS, shut it down for this week. Put it on next week's schedule and we'll see," he ordered.

Jenny didn't need to be anywhere near the press, and the press was crawling all over the Hill. She could still run her operations from MTAC, handle anything _in house_ that she wanted, but he was relatively close to putting her on lockdown.

His feelings were quickly turning from anger to stifling vigilance.

Cynthia began following his orders. She adjusted the schedule, made a copy, and put them in windows next to each other, squinting her eyes. She turned and reached for a pen and the desk phone, pausing briefly to take a deep breath.

"Is the Director okay?" she asked, looking up at Gibbs with sincere concern.

"She's fine."

"Agent Gibbs," Cynthia said sharply. She glared at him for his curt answer. "She isn't just my boss, you know. She's my friend."

Gibbs let her comment settle. He nodded more gently.

"She could use some real coffee," he said, deflating some. He turned and jabbed his two fingers at her security. "And keep an eye on _them_," he growled distastefully.

Cynthia cradled the phone against her shoulder, biting her tongue. Gibbs marched across the room and flung open Jenny's office door.

"She's—" Cynthia began.

"Where is she?" interrupted Gibbs, backtracking. The office was empty; it appeared Jenny had walked in only to fetch something earlier.

"In the bullpen," Cynthia answered, nodding at the exit of her office.

Gibbs' brow furrowed. He switched directions, and marched out of Cynthia's office, curious.

* * *

><p>"Jen. What are you doing?" Gibbs asked under his breath.<p>

He stood in front of his desk, blocking McGee's view. McGee was quietly working on the case they had before the Director took precedence, and the young agent kept glancing up nervously at Gibbs' desk.

He was not the only one. The other agents in the building were shooting their own furtive looks at Agent Gibbs' desk, considering Director Shepard was sitting at it, working calmly as if nothing were wrong.

"I am working," Jenny answered unhelpfully.

She had glasses on, a stack of case files on his keyboard, and she did not look up at him.

Gibbs leaned forward, bracing his palms in front of his desk.

"Work, McGee," he growled pointedly, without looking at the probie. He felt rather than saw McGee studiously glue his eyes to a computer. "You have an office," Gibbs pointed out to Jenny.

She looked up, taking her glasses off swiftly.

"It is rather easy to fall asleep in my office," she responded dully. "Being Director comes with a pretty cushy set up."

Gibbs made a disapproving noise. He straightened up.

"Get up," he said firmly.

Jenny raised her eyebrow at him. She stood, and he tilted his head, indicating she should follow. McGee looked up anxiously, watching them. Gibbs led her over to the elevator and opened it. Jenny swore she saw a passing agent roll his eyes.

Good Lord, these people didn't really thing she and Gibbs had sex at _work_ did they? The indignant thought crossed her mind and she glared at the agent's back as she turned around in the elevator.

The doors slid closed, and Gibbs immediately shut off the elevator.

"That was unexpected," Jenny said sardonically, clearly meaning exactly the opposite.

He turned to her.

"You don't want to go home, fine," he said, unwilling to enter into that argument again, "but you need to take a break. Get a few hours of sleep."

"I have a concussion, Jethro," she said patronizingly. "I can't go to sleep."

He made a face.

"I'll wake you up," he retorted, as if it were obvious. "You think anyone here would let you just _sleep_ to death?"

She shrugged, arching an eyebrow. She didn't exactly want to speak for everyone. Maybe some of the NCIS employees _did_ want her to sleep to death. One of the lawyers liked to inform everyone that he hated her guts.

Gibbs turned toward the emergency stop button and started to turn the elevator back on.

"I'll work from your office. You can sleep up there," he said firmly.

She grabbed his hand, gripping his fingers tightly.

"No," she snapped. "I don't want to sleep."

His hand hung limply, held by her, prevented from flipping the elevator back on. He looked at her, narrowing his eyes.

"Do you want some tea?" he asked gruffly, changing direction.

"_What_?"

"Ducky. Tea," Gibbs said, speaking in monosyllables. "Take your mind off of it."

She opened her mouth and closed it, almost like a fish.

She nodded abruptly.

"Fine."

He didn't think that was a very amicable agreement, but she released his hand and he turned on the elevator, selecting _Autopsy_. Jenny folded her arms across her chest. She smirked and looked down, scuffing her foot against the floor.

"You can't handle this, can you?" she asked derisively.

He looked at her, and she looked at him.

"You don't want a damn thing to do with me," she mused. "It's as if you came home to some other animal marking your territory, and now you won't touch me."

Gibbs turned to her aggressively, his skin crawling defensively; with horror. He moved his head sharply, a muscle in his jaw jumping violently. He resisted the urge to push her back into the elevator walls and pin her there, as he would any _man_ who challenged his loyalty to Jenny.

"You—" he started, and broke off, almost shaking with anger. "Don't say that again. Don't _ever_ say something like that again," he threatened. "You told me not to touch you, Jen. You said you didn't want it," he threw at her viciously.

She took a step back, cowering a little. Her eyes widened. She licked her lips.

"You aren't reacting like I thought you would!" she exclaimed, sounding a little panicked.

She was used to Jethro being protective, Jethro being a chauvinist. He had behaved too coolly since last night; he had been almost aloof, and she didn't know what to make of it.

"Can I do _anything_ right, Jen?" he barked, snapping. His eyes hardened. He pointed at her, his knuckles clenched and white. "You walked out on me," he snapped. "_Twice_."

Jenny blinked, swallowing hard. It clicked suddenly; he didn't understand where they stood either. He didn't know where the dénouement of their last fight had left them anymore than she did. And because of that, he didn't know how to react; he didn't know if it was his right to protect and comfort, or if that moment had passed.

She shook her head, her brow furrowing angrily.

"You told me to get out!" she burst out, choking on the words.

That was not the whole story.

"You _left_," he pointed out darkly, and truthfully. But that wasn't the whole story either. She thrust her hands out, shoving him in the chest.

"It was a fight, we have fights, we _always_ fight!" she shouted. "Was that it? It's over?" she asked rapidly.

"You tell me," he snarled.

He hadn't wanted it to be. He didn't think she did either. He pushed her hands away from him. She covered her face with her hand, shielding her eyes. Her shoulders trembled. The elevator jolted to a stop, but she hardly noticed. The doors slipped open with a _ping_.

"I hate you," she broke out forcefully, shaking her head. She lowered her hand and bit her lip, her cheeks flushing. She began to step forward and froze in her tracks.

Abby and Ducky stood just outside the elevator doors, waiting for the elevator. Abby looked subdued; Ducky was wringing his hands, and both looked both uncomfortable and shocked. They had evidently overheard her radical pronouncement.

Silently, Gibbs stepped up behind her and took her arm above the elbow, guiding her up to Ducky.

"Tea," he said blankly, as if nothing had happened. He handed off the tearful Director to his old friend, ignoring the questions in the older ME's eyes.

"Come with me, my dear," he heard Ducky say faintly, leading Jenny off.

Gibbs turned stiffly to Abby.

"What have you got?"

* * *

><p>Ziva slammed the car door.<p>

"Did you have to slam the door?" Tony asked promptly.

The Israeli rolled her eyes.

"This is a very nice bar," Ziva remarked.

"Not all American bars are the nasty, run down, hole-in-the-wall places you see in movies, Zee-vah."

"Well, most Israeli bars _are_," she retorted, falling into step next to him. "I do not think they are open," she said.

"I called. They open at three p.m., but the owner was doing inventory today."

Ziva nodded. They walked to the entrance, and opened the doors, slowly entering the dimly lit, empty bar. Chairs were all up on high top tables, and everything was spic-and-span, prepared for whatever would come tonight. Somewhere in the back, music was playing—and Ziva could hear faint male voices.

"Hey, you got customers," Tony shouted obnoxiously.

There was some shuffling around. A middle aged, attractive woman came out. She was dressed casually, holding a clipboard.

"Funny," she remarked, unfazed. "Sign says closed," she pointed out, flicking her pen towards a sign that did, in fact, read 'closed'.

Tony flipped open his badge. Her eyes lit up with recognition.

"Oh, the navy cops," she said aloud, to no one in particular. "Come on in the back," she said, turning briskly.

"Is this who you talked to on the phone?" Ziva asked quietly.

"Nah, I talked to a man," Tony answered.

"You talked to my business partner," the woman said, glancing over her shoulder. "Tiger."

"Excuse me?" Ziva asked. "Your business partner is a tiger?" She queried, confused.

"Uh, I think she was calling me Tiger," Tony answered smugly.

"Don't fool yourself, kid," the woman said, pushing open a door to a backroom and letting them in. "My partner, Luther Scott. Call 'im 'Tiger'," she clarified, turning to them. She extended her hand. "I'm Marcia Brady," she said, and in the same sentence, deadpan, continued: "No 'oh, my nose' jokes, please."

Tony looked disappointed. Ziva shook the woman's hand.

"Now," Marcia Brady said, looking around the back room. "You're here about some incident that happened here last night, yeah?"

"Right—" Tony began. The headstrong woman cut him off.

"Well, I can tell ya there were no navy boys here last night, we had half-priced Cosmos and that brings in the women—you know, the women-who-like-women kinda women. And I can spot a military boy from six miles away, one eye closed, so you've got me stumped on why the regular cops aren't here."

"We are here concerning a _female_ NCIS employee," Ziva clarified, looking annoyed by the amount of talking the woman had just done.

"Then I'm not stumped anymore," Brady answered simply enough. She placed both of her hands on her clipboard, holding it protruding from her hip. She tilted her head. "What can I tell you?"

"Well, you can start with what you saw last night. Anything stick out as odd?" Tony asked.

She shook her head, shrugging.

"Nah, normal night for the bar. Steady work-week business, everyone seemed happy. No fights last night. No complaints, either, so I can't see what you're investigating."

"We're looking into rape," Tony answered bluntly, folding his arms.

Brady looked at him sharply.

"Someone was raped here last night?" she asked tensely.

Ziva nodded.

"In your parking garage, it appears," she said.

Tony pulled a picture from his jacket pocket.

"You recognize this woman?" he asked, presenting a picture of Jenny. It was her NCIS badge ID picture, and it was rather old. Jenny looked younger in the picture.

Brady squinted, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Might've seen her before. Think it was on the news, though, not in here. I can't say; I was running the billiards room last night. My bartender would know," she answered.

"And where can we get in touch with him?"

"He's here," she said helpfully. "Whiskey inventory. Oy, Ben!"

They heard shuffling, and after a minute, a man poked his head out from behind some boxes.

"Yeah, Marsh?" he asked.

"Navy cops got some questions for you," she answered. She turned to them dismissively. "I've got a lot to check before we open. You mind?" she asked.

Tony and Ziva indicated she could go, both turning their attention to the bartender as he walked up, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Navy cops, huh?" he asked, smiling. "Some jarhead get a DUI?" he asked lightly.

"Not quite," Ziva snorted.

"You were bartending last night?" Tony asked.

"Yep."

"Recognize her?" Tony held up the picture of Jenny. The bartender took it.

"Hell, 'course I do," he said. "She's the reason we're down a bottle of Patron. Pretty bird—sad, though. Somethin' happen to her?"

Tony snatched the picture away, narrowing his eyes. He tucked it back into his pocket.

"She was raped," Ziva supplied dismally.

The bartender stared at Ziva.

"Raped?" he asked. "_Here_? Last night? Naw."

"You do not believe this happened why?" Ziva asked sharply.

He shrugged.

"Well, I just," he paused. "This is a nice bar. Rapist types don't come in here. Scum like that," he said.

"You familiar with the 'rapist type'?" asked Tony sarcastically, accusation in his tone.

"Whoa, hey now," the bartender held up his hands defensively. "I just served her drinks, that's all. I got a pretty good eye for people."

"Right," snorted Tony. "Did you see anyone harassing her last night? You know, trying to get her to dance, chatting her up?"

"No more than's typical for a woman like that."

"What do you mean, a 'woman like that'?" Ziva asked.

"Hot," the bartender answered with a casual shrug. "Nice legs, low-cut blouse. Couple guys tried to talk to her, but she deflected it. One bought her a drink, but when I gave it to her, she wouldn't take it. Said she didn't play that game."

"Was she already drunk at that time?" Tony asked.

"Eh, maybe. Didn't really show it. Didn't talk much. Seemed to hold the alcohol pretty well. Drank a helluva lot, though. Personally? I think she had a broken heart. Reminds me of that song, you know? 'Straight Tequila Night'. John Anderson. Man, good song."

Ziva glared at the bartender. Why did these people insert so many unnecessary comments into conversation?

Tony just nodded his head, giving the bartender a weird look.

"What's your name?" he asked, taking out his notepad.

"Benjamin Howard," the bartender answered promptly. "Go by Ben, though. Won't answer to anything else."

"When do you close this place down, Ben?" Tony asked.

"Midnight," he said. "Kinda early, I know, but it's one of those bars for people who work in the morning."

"Uh-huh. You know when this woman left?" Tony asked.

Ben hesitated. Then he shrugged.

"No, I was busy getting' everything closed down."

"You don't know if anyone walked her out? Maybe talked her into leaving?" Tony prompted.

"Can't say I do. Sorry."

"You see anyone touch her drink, at any time that night?"

The bartender shook his head.

"Just me—hang on," he paused. "The fella' who bought her one, he sat next to her for a while. I didn't see him mess with her, but it's possible."

Tony grunted, glancing at Ziva. Ziva raised her eyebrows.

"Do you have security cameras?" she asked matter-of-factly.

"Sure do."

"We need the tapes. Both for in house and the garage," Ziva said.

"I'll tell Marcia," Ben said. "She and Tiger will have to take care of that stuff. I'm just a bartender."

Tony nodded, marking something down.

"That all you guys need?" the bartender asked.

"Just one more thing," Tony said slowly. "How much did you serve the victim?"

The bartender twisted his mouth, thinking.

"Enough to make her forget," he said with a shrug.

Ziva made a derisive noise. Tony lifted his eyebrows. To the both of them, the answer was kind of incriminating, though it was clear the bartender hadn't meant it to be so.

"We'll be in touch," was all Tony said.

They said their goodbyes, and left. Tony reached for his phone.

"What did you make of that?" he asked Ziva neutrally.

"The Bartender is quite friendly," she said. "Jenny said so, and I agree."

"What, you don't like friendly?" Tony snorted.

"No," Ziva answered seriously. "I do not like friendly."

"What are you thinking, Zee?" Tony asked, getting into the car.

"We do not yet know if Jenny received a spiked drink," Ziva said slowly. "But I am thinking that if she did, and she did not accept a drink from any stranger, then there is no other person who could have spiked her drink besides the friendly bartender."

Tony frowned. He turned the key in the ignition, and hit Gibbs' speed dial number. He let Ziva's words sink in.

"Gibbs," the Boss answered gruffly.

"Hey, Boss…" began Tony.

* * *

><p>"The bartender is going to run the tapes by around six, on her dinner break," McGee said, hanging up the phone.<p>

The team stood in Abby's lab, waiting on her. She shuffled in, Caf-pow! in hand, glaring around at all of them.

"Excuse me, excuse me," she said pointedly, pushing through to get to her computer. She settled in, took a sip of her drink, and sighed heavily, resting her hand on the mouse. She closed her eyes, breathing in.

"Abs," growled Gibbs impatiently.

"I'm mentally preparing myself, Boss-man," she explained. "This is not happy. This case makes me sad."

"Get on with it," was all Gibbs said.

She nodded dejectedly.

"I managed to make some progress, but Rome wasn't built in a day," she started, shaking her mouse. She began to pull up minimized screens. "The semen on the upholstery of Jenny's car did match the swab from the rape kit," she paused, clicking around. "There were samples from different men, but one was older, and likely consensual—um, oops, sorry," she blushed furiously and broke off, clicking in panic.

Briefly, a DNA analysis popped up on screen with Gibbs' NCIS badge picture posed next to it. Rapidly, Abby minimized the screen and pulled up a different DNA analysis, which contained a blank picture, and was lined up next to the rape kit when Jenny's name at the top.

A pin could have been heard to drop.

McGee cleared his throat, staring at his feet. He wished the ground would swallow him whole. He didn't want to know if Gibbs and the Director were having sex in her car—much less see scientific proof of it. He was also feeling considerably awkward on Abby's behalf—she had _swabbed_ it, after all.

Tony snickered. _Typical DiNozzo._

Gibbs afforded him a sharp slap to the back of the head.

"Um," Abby cleared her throat. "Like I said, older, and, um," she glanced over her shoulder, "irrelevant, because Gibbs didn't…rape…"

"Abby," Gibbs said sharply. "Move on."

He swore silently, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. DNA had come a damn long way if it could still prove he and Jenny had sex in the backseat of her car when that had happened over a month ago.

"Yeah," she muttered. "The unidentified genetic material taken from the Director's upholstery, car, and skirt all match each other, so we have more than enough to place whoever was in the car with her…well, in the car with her—once we get some DNA to match it to," she paused, turning to another screen. "I'm still running possible matches through the criminal database of the tri-state area, but maybe it would help if you got me some credit card receipts of the males who were at the bar? Then I would have names to look for?"

"McGee," Gibbs said.

"On it!"

McGee disappeared, scrambling off to do Gibbs' bidding.

"Gibbs, the Director's BAC was .01 when her blood was taken this morning, next to nothing," she shrugged a little helplessly. "I would be able to get a more accurate measure of how drunk she was if I had a better sample, is there any better—"

"Could you get it from vomit?" he asked.

Abby furrowed her brow.

"Maybe," she said hesitantly.

"She said she vomited in the parking garage," Gibbs said.

"Well, I need a sample."

Gibbs turned to DiNozzo.

"Take David with you."

Tony made a face and groaned, turning to go.

"That is what you get for snickering at him," they heard Ziva hiss in annoyance. Tony shot something back at her, but it was muffled, and the ping of the elevator covered it up.

Gibbs turned quietly to Abby.

"GHB?" he asked.

Abby frowned.

"No," she said softly. "I'm sorry Gibbs, there isn't any present," she answered. "That drug is virtually untraceable after a few hours."

"Twenty-four," he said firmly. "It's usually twenty-four."

"It…it can be. Or maybe she threw it up or—" Abby broke off.

She didn't want to say it, but he knew what she was thinking. _Or maybe there was no GHB. _Maybe Jenny hadn't been drugged; maybe she'd just been drunk off her ass.

"Is the Director okay?" Abby asked, her pigtails seeming to droop.

"What do you think?" answered Gibbs shortly.

"I'm asking you what _you_ think," she said indignantly. "You know her."

Gibbs didn't answer.

"I feel like I'm missing something!" Abby exclaimed in frustration.

He just looked at her. He did, too—but now, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was. He wasn't so sure about anything, and he was still smarting from Jenny's expression of hatred. Gibbs turned to go, his hands in his pockets.

"Gibbs," Abby ventured, stopping him.

"What, Abs?" he asked, tired, and exasperated.

"I'll find something," she began seriously.

"You can't. Not if it's not there," he said with a cool shrug.

Abby stomped her foot.

"Something has to be there, Gibbs," she insisted sincerely. "I know…I know what you're thinking, okay? But Jenny came to you, and she wouldn't have if—if she had cheated. Okay, Gibbs? And she doesn't remember. And if she thinks someone raped her, then someone raped her—and you have to believe her, Gibbs. You _have_ to."

He narrowed his eyes, feeling that anger again; angry Abby thought she had to coax him to believe Jenny—and angry that, for a moment, he needed coaxing. He ground his teeth together firmly. And when he answered, he was completely secure in his answer:

"I believe her, Abs."

* * *

><p>She was very focused on cradling her head in her palms and staring at the tea Ducky had so kindly made her. The steam rose and tickled her eyelashes, forcing her to occasionally blink.<p>

"You know I find this very interesting, my dear," Ducky mused into the silence. "Once upon a time the very notion of autopsy made you sick, and now it is to autopsy you come for comfort."

She smiled slightly.

"To you, Ducky," she said pointedly, lifting her head. "To _you_. Not autopsy." She looked around, arching an eyebrow. "Besides, there is no dead body on the table."

"Ah, well, there is that," Ducky remarked. "Though I daresay your stomach has grown stronger since our first meeting."

Jenny shrugged. She smiled a little sarcastically and went back to staring at the tea.

"Drinking it might help, you know."

"It's hot," was all she answered, and dully at that. Ducky still went about cleaning, occasionally remaining quiet, and occasionally piping up with the odd interesting comment. This time, he remained quiet for quite some time until he spoke again, coming up next to her.

"If you don't mind me inquiring, Director, what is it that has you so glum?" he asked. He gave her a bit of a dejected look. "Aside from the obvious."

She reached out and traced the rim of her teacup with her finger.

"Please call me Jenny," she said quietly.

"Jenny," he said warmly. He pulled out a chair and sat down, looking at her like a kind old grandfather, earnest and sincere. "What is it?"

She shifted and rubbed her face, picking up the teacup and taking a sip. She swallowed, blew stray hairs off of her forehead, and looked at him, lifting her shoulders roughly.

"I told Jethro I hated him," she said numbly.

"Ah, yes. I heard," Ducky said mildly. "I'm sure you didn't mean it, Jenny."

"Of course I didn't mean it," she retorted bitterly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"What prompted you to say it?" Ducky asked.

"He pissed me off."

"What did Jethro say _this_ time?" Ducky asked, exasperated.

"Nothing," she answered after a moment. "He—I don't know." She propped her elbow on the table and held up her head in her palm, frowning.

Dr. Mallard was not sure what Jenny wanted from him at the moment. He was informed of the situation; Gibbs had issued a characteristically vague explanation over the phone, and Ziva had expounded upon that. Jenny was his friend and he was worried about her, naturally—not only because of what she had been through, but because he was concerned about what had driven her to behave the way she had in the hours leading up to the event.

Jenny was a smart, very shrewd woman; it did not seem typical of her to run off alone and drink herself into oblivion. The one time Ducky had seen the collected Director drunk was in Paris, and that particular night she had been in the care of the capable hands of Gibbs.

Ducky was silently curious as to why Gibbs had pawned Jenny off; he thought that Gibbs would have wanted to 'take care' of her himself, though Jenny would abhor such an idea.

Jenny sipped the tea delicately.

"There isn't any reason for you to be here, you know," Ducky said. "You ought to be at home."

"What good will that do me, Ducky?" she asked. "There's plenty of _reason_ for me to be here; I have work to do. A reconnaissance team in Italy needs a conference with me and the LA special ops unit and I have budget files to put in order."

"Yes, well," Ducky agreed skeptically. "All that may be true, but it's unhealthy. What you _need_ is rest."

Jenny snorted derisively.

"Something I should have done last night," she answered in a clipped tone, "rather than run off to indulge myself."

Ducky tilted his head, his brow furrowing anxiously.

"Jenny, are you _punishing_ yourself?" he asked, the psychologist in him poking its head to the surface. Jenny winced at the question. She pushed her hair back and took another sip of tea, shrugging her shoulders in a non-committal sort of way.

"This would not have happened if I hadn't been drunk."

"On the contrary," Ducky pointed out, bristling defensively, "it may not have happened if you weren't at a bar, yes, but if your drink was spiked, the fact that you were drinking is completely irrelevant."

She just shook her head slightly.

"This isn't your fault, Jenny," Ducky said.

She glared at him, arching an eyebrow. It appeared she thought it was. Ducky frowned, searching for something to say. She stood up, looking at the dregs of her tea with a small, unreadable frown.

"I'll be in my office," she said matter-of-factly. "Thank you for the tea. If you run into Jethro," she began, hesitating, "tell him I don't hate him."

Ducky turned, watching her briskly leave. His frown stayed etched on his face and he sighed heavily, standing up. He began to clean up the remains of the tea. He certainly hoped Gibbs was up to the task of 'taking care' of her.

* * *

><p>"Duck," Gibbs said abruptly, strolling into autopsy in his usual no-nonsense manner. "How many hormones did the Skaric girl have in her system when she died?"<p>

Taken aback, Ducky looked up from the body he was currently elbow-deep in. He squinted his eyes, frowning slightly.

"Quite a bit, I'm afraid. Abby is currently identifying all the different types, but they are all highly abnormal for a girl her age."

"What about the heroin in her blood?"

"I'm still not entirely sure where the high amounts came from—though it is possible someone was shooting her up to make her compliant, or dependent," Ducky said slowly. "Jethro, what does this have to do with Jenny?"

Gibbs blinked, surprised.

"Nothing," he answered.

"I thought the Skaric case was on the backburner—"

"I don't do backburners," Gibbs interrupted shortly. "I can't do anything about Jen until we review the security cameras, and Abs is still running tests," he explained. And then, as if he were feeling attacked, and as if he needed to justify what he felt Ducky was seeing as indifference, he continued: "It's only been twelve hours."

"Well, I cannot do anything about the Skaric girl until Abby is finished running those tests," Ducky responded with an apologetic shrug. "In the meantime, don't you think your time would be better spent with the Director?"

Gibbs gave the medical examiner a bitter look.

"What do you want me to do, Duck?" he asked sharply.

Gibbs was under no illusions; he knew half—if not most of—the agency knew he and Jenny were 'together' for lack of a better word, and he knew that one hell of a blind eye was turned to it. Word that there was a case involving the Director was leaking, and he was starting to feel the eyes of his colleagues on him—for much the same reason Ducky was voicing, he figured.

He was at a loss for what the hell was expected of him, though. Jenny didn't seem to want to be around him anymore than she had since they'd fought, and he wasn't about to force himself into her company _now_.

Ducky didn't seem to have an answer; Gibbs turned to leave.

"Jethro," Ducky called. "She did tell me to let you know she doesn't hate you," he said mildly.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

"What is this, the fourth grade?" Gibbs asked awkwardly. He was shocked that Jenny would have had a conversation about that with Ducky, and blindsided by Ducky's bringing it up in casual conversation. As was typical, he shut down at the mention of anything personal and emotional.

He knew Jenny didn't hate him; he wasn't an idiot.

He still _hated_ to hear her say it.

Ducky raised his hands, a scalpel still clutched in one.

"Don't shoot the messenger," he murmured.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. He turned to go again, and then stopped, frustrated.

"Where is she?" he asked, relenting.

Ducky tilted his head upwards.

"Her office, the last I heard," he offered helpfully.

* * *

><p>"She in there?" Gibbs asked, strolling into Cynthia's office as if he owned the place.<p>

Cynthia pulled the mouthpiece of her phone away from her mouth, looking considerably annoyed. She nodded curtly.

"She doesn't want any interruptions," the secretary warned.

"I'm making sure she's awake," Gibbs threw out as a justification.

"Agent Gibbs, I've already—"

He opened Jenny's polished office door confidently, ignoring the look on Cynthia's face and the patronizing way she shook her head and rolled her eyes.

He shut the door on Cynthia, but he did so quietly, just in case Jenny was asleep. He didn't want to startle her.

He should have known better, though. Jenny wasn't asleep; she was working. Her things were spread out over the coffee table, her glasses were perched on her nose, and she was studying a file intently.

She looked up briefly when she heard the door shut.

"You've got nothing on the Skaric case," she said pointedly. "The Skarics want to know what happened to their daughter."

"Nothing on your case, either," he responded, ignoring her last jab.

"That could be because I don't have a case," Jenny answered icily, closing a file. She placed it in a stack with a few others and reached for another. Gibbs crossed the room and reached across the table, taking her hand firmly.

"Stop," he said. "I'm taking you home."

"Under other circumstances, I might find your forwardness sexy," she answered shortly. She wrenched her hand away and stood, lifting a stack of files with her.

"I'm serious, Jenny," Gibbs said.

She looked at him over her glasses, walking to her desk and setting the files in a labeled box.

"I know you are, Jethro," she said, taking her glasses off and placing them atop her files. "I have no interest in going home."

"You need to sleep," he pointed out.

"I took a nap, and I had Cynthia wake me. It is something I will not be doing again soon," she replied bitterly.

He narrowed his eyes, coming forward. He studied her intently, wondering at the meaning behind that loaded statement.

"Why?" he asked.

"It didn't help my headache much," she murmured. She dropped into her office chair and looked up at him, pursing her lips coolly. She raised an eyebrow.

"Did you remember something?" he prompted.

"No," she snapped. "No," she sighed, continuing more benignly. "I had a nightmare."

"The usual one?" Gibbs asked, softening a little.

She shook her head, leaning forward. She frowned, her brow knitting together in confusion.

"I don't remember it. It was just bad," she said slowly.

"You're trying to remember," Gibbs said. "Subconsciously. Sleep might help."

"Thank you for that, Sigmund Freud," she snapped acerbically.

He leaned forward on her desk, his jaw line hard and angry suddenly. He glared at her.

"You want me to back off or do you want me around, Jen?" he demanded. "Decide. Now."

It hadn't been too long ago that she had freaked out because she perceived his uncertainty concerning how to act around her as an expression of his aversion to her. He wasn't in the mood to play that game with her right now—he didn't know how she was going to answer, but he was damn sure it wasn't going to matter much at this point; he was getting more and more pissed at whoever had touched her and less willing to leave her alone whether she wanted it or not.

Jenny stared at him, her eyes wide. She blinked and looked away, pointedly not looking at him for a moment. She stood up briskly and reached over to shut off her computer. She began to gather her things, and he straightened up, watching her. He took her packing up as acquiescence to his announcement that he was taking her home.

He thought about what Abby had said.

"Jenny," he said, walking around to meet her as she picked up her briefcase.

She looked up at him, her face guarded.

He rested his arm on hers, squeezing gently.

"Jen, someone raped you," he said tightly, his voice a low growl. "I'm not mad at _you_." He tried to reassure her, because he thought that might be something she was worrying about.

"What if it wasn't rape?" she asked dully.

He lifted his hand and touched her bruised jaw. She had covered it as carefully as she could with make-up, but it still glowed through ominously. He ran his thumb over the mark, narrowing his eyes. He looked at her pointedly, touching the bruise. He didn't think he needed to say anything.

She had been hit in the face. Someone had _hit_ her.

* * *

><p>"Ziva, are you coming home?"<p>

Tony DiNozzo waited a moment, his backpack slung over his shoulder, eyes drooping a little sleepily. Gibbs had left with the Director hours ago, and he had left no instructions; Tony saw no reason why they couldn't leave at a normal hour.

There was nothing to do on the Skaric case, and they would be better able to view the bar's security tapes for the Director's case if they were fully alert.

"Ziva?" he asked again after a moment.

She looked up from her screen, blinking.

"Hmm?" she responded distractedly.

"Home. Sleep. You coming?"

She tilted her head thoughtfully, and then looked back at her computer.

"No. I am not."

"Aww, Ziva, come on. Don't let Gibbs scare you off."

"It is nothing to do with Gibbs," Ziva answered shortly, still not looking at him. "I am going to stay. Perhaps I can find something for Jenny."

"There isn't anything to find," Tony whined, exasperated. He'd kind of gotten used to Ziva snoring all night. How the hell was he supposed to sleep without that background noise? Ninjas could be so _selfish_.

"I must try," Ziva answered. "You do not understand, Tony."

DiNozzo frowned. He stared at Ziva, trying to figure out some way to convince her. He shrugged, and started to lower his backpack.

"Want me to stay, too?" he asked, shrugging.

"No," she answered. "Go sleep. You have yawned twenty-three times today."

He stared at her, his mouth half open. He turned and walked off slowly, glancing back. He spent the drive home trying to figure out why he was infatuated with someone who counted how many times he yawned.

* * *

><p>Jenny blinked at her alarm clock tiredly, half-thankful for the annoying, soft beeping that had just issued from it to wake her up. It was by no means time for her to be back at work, the alarm was just a precaution to wake her up so her concussion wouldn't be the end of her.<p>

The alarm had pulled her out of a murky nightmare she couldn't remember, and she'd turned it off. Now she stared at it. Blurry red letters blinked _3:42_ _a.m._ She blinked and rolled over onto her back, wincing as she moved.

Everything was sore now; she felt like she had been pushed around. It was the way she used to feel after a particularly rough run-in with a suspect back in the day; now she was unused to the muscle strain and out of shape, and everything hurt twice as much.

She drew her legs up, staring at sheet-and-comforter covered knees in the dark. Her eyes adjusted slowly. She looked without seeing, her mind shying away from the shadowy nightmares and grasping for something to analyze. She settled on where she stood with Jethro, and the mire of confusion their relationship was in—now more so than ever.

She had been upset and unhappy for days; she had been both indignant and remorseful about the fight they had. It wasn't quite the worst—the worst had been in Paris; she had slapped him in Paris and _that_ had been rock bottom, which was why, though this one had been ranked among fights-most-foul, she hadn't gone so far to think it was over.

But then, this was their second time around. In Paris, she had thought Jethro to be guarded and closed off, yet that was nothing compared to now. Grudgingly, she could admit it was probably because he didn't want to trust her completely; he didn't want to get so completely involved the way they had in Paris because that had been an ugly, unsatisfying end.

This time around, she knew about his wife and daughter, and he had likely figured out that the force behind the ambition that led her to abandon him was her vengeful hunt for _La Grenouille_.

All of that was over now.

And they still couldn't get past the same old _fights_.

It was the case, the stupid, heavy Skaric case—driving Jethro mad, consuming him, because that little Skaric girl was dead, and he was just seeing his daughter's dead body, and Jenny had just been trying to help—but he wouldn't let her in. And she felt like he hated her for trying.

Feeling frustrated, upset, and hurt all over again, Jenny kicked off her covers, untangling herself almost frantically. She picked up a short robe from the floor and slipped it on, leaving her room to pace the rest of the house.

There was a chance she might have some work in the study to do. Perhaps she hadn't taken it all back to work with her.

She yawned tiredly as she walked slowly down her foyer hallway, flipping the study light switch gently. She very nearly jumped out of her skin, and she opened her mouth, her hand flying to her chest.

Jethro was stretched out on her couch, his legs crossed at the ankle. He looked like he'd just awoken; he was eyeing her blearily, yet watchfully, in that way that abruptly-awoken-Marines tended to do.

"What are you doing here?" she asked quietly, relaxing somewhat.

"You think I'd leave?" he scoffed, as if annoyed by the idea.

"You scared me," she said seriously, lowering her hand. She crossed her arms and walked towards him, standing over the sofa. "Why are you sleeping down here?"

He shrugged.

"I don't know, Jen," he answered warily. He hadn't really had the energy to mess with sleeping arrangements, and what they did or did not mean.

She bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing.

"You could have slept upstairs," she muttered, shooting him a look. She moved forward a little, lifting her arm to push her hair back. He sat up slowly, his eyes narrowing.

"Don't move," he mumbled, swinging one leg off the couch and onto the ground in front of her. He sat up, and put the other one on the other side of her legs, trapping her, in a way.

"What?" she asked sharply.

He took one of her hands, lacing his fingers into it gently, and then reached out to touch her thigh just where the edge of her robe was hitting, sliding his hand up a little, pushing the fabric up. She froze, her spine tingling.

He pressed gingerly, and she felt his fingers brush over rough spots. She hissed, her breath rushing through her teeth.

"Did that hurt?" he asked, looking up. He looked apologetic.

She nodded.

"What—" she began, looking down.

His hand was resting on a bruise blooming up the inside of her thigh; the rough patches his fingers had grazed her thin red scratches, all close together—as if made by a—a—

"Ring," she murmured suddenly, taking her hand out of his and reaching down to the scratches. "He was wearing a ring. A high school ring," she said, biting her lip harshly.

"This is violence, Jenny," Jethro said pointedly, his hands running over her protectively. "You still convinced you were just drunk?"

"Are you?" she asked quietly.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. His jaw tightened, angry.

"I think someone raped you," he growled. "And when I get my hands on him, I'll kill him."

"Don't say that," she said shakily, turning her head back and forth. "Stop," she muttered, her eyes closing a little. She winced.

"You can't think this was consensual, Jen!" his voice was still scratchy with sleep.

"I think I brought it on myself," she said delicately, honestly, and a little caustically.

He stared at her in shock and anger, his mouth open a little, as if he didn't know how to respond to her saying something ridiculous like that.

"I," she paused, shrugging. "I don't remember anything, Jethro," she said desperately, shrugging her shoulders. "I was irresponsible, and now I don't know—I don't know," she didn't seem to know what to say, either.

He tore his eyes from her to the bruise on her thigh, splaying his hand over it possessively. Her skin jumped under his touch. He wrapped his arm around her thigh, pulling her towards him. She sank down onto the couch, half on his lap, half off. She laid back, her legs thrown over his lap, her eyes focused dully on the hand he rested on her thigh.

He didn't know it, but just his touching her was making a world of difference in how she felt.

* * *

><p><em>Credit to Miss Mila for beta-work.<em>

_-Alexandra_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Tuesday again-Tuesdays are my favorite. I offer you a longer chapter, good people of the interwebz. Here's to hoping tonight's episode is as good as last week's was; Hell, I'm just hoping Gibbs will call some sucker a 'bitch' again. ;)_

_*Note: before anyone jumps my case about it, I'm using the name 'Clay Jarvis' as SecNav's. Yes. I'm aware that the current SecNav is called that, and it wasn't he who worked with Jenny. His character fits this role more, and, at the same time, I failed at doing research correctly and got confused. So. Clay Jarvis it is._

* * *

><p><strong>4<strong>

Very Special Agent Tony DiNozzo placed a large, hot cup of coffee next to the sleeping Israeli's dangerous hand and quietly retreated to his desk. He sat down and folded his hands atop his keyboard, waiting patiently for the smell to wake her up.

He was perturbed to find she had stayed at NCIS all night, evidently going through the bar's security tapes perpetually one by one. What a boring way to spend the night when she could have been fooling around with him.

And by fooling around, he meant watching the Magnum marathon on TV, because that's what cool, sexually active adults like him did in their free time. Watch old TV shows.

Tony hoped Gibbs' inadvertent discovery of their, er, sexcapades wasn't scaring her off.

Tony suddenly wondered if Ziva was scared of Gibbs. He didn't think so…but then, she might be. Gibbs was kind of a scary bad ass no matter if you were an American boy from Philly or a secret ninja from—

Ziva sat up slowly, blinking. A post-it note was stuck to her face.

"There's a post-it stuck to your face," Tony announced loudly, grinning.

She scowled at him. She noticed the coffee, and removed the post-it from her head, curling her hand around the cardboard sleeve on her cup.

"I have you to thank for this?" she asked.

"Well, McLate didn't bring it," answered Tony, nodding at McGee's empty desk. "And I'm pretty sure the only person Gibbs gets coffee for is the Director—and only when they're sleeping together."

Ziva glared at DiNozzo.

"You could have just said yes and I would have thanked you and we could have moved on."

"Well, thank me anyway."

"_Toda_," she said.

"Moving on," he announced abruptly, standing up. Ziva rolled her eyes. "Did you find anything interesting when you stayed here all night and watched those tapes?"

Ziva took a very slow sip of her coffee and narrowed her eyes at him, annoyed at his tone. He was clearly brooding over her refusal to come home with him. Tony simply did not understand the hatred Ziva bore towards the offense perpetrated on Jenny. It was likely that the simple fact that he was male prevented him from ever understanding.

She nodded.

"I did. In fact, I found that Benjamin Howard neglected to give us the tapes for the parking garage," she explained. "I only had hours and hours of tape from inside the bar, much of which included clean up and closing down."

Tony frowned, walking over to her desk. He sat on the edge of it.

"So, you're saying the guy forgot to give you the tapes that probably contain the most important information we might find?"

"That is what I just said Tony, weren't you listening?"

"I was being rhetorical, Ziva," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Well, do not be! And yes, that is what I am saying!"

"I find that a little suspicious," Tony mused, raising his eyebrow.

"I do not think Gibbs will see it as a coincidence," Ziva said darkly, drinking some of her coffee again.

Tony frowned. Gibbs sure as hell wouldn't see that as a coincidence.

"Do you think the bartender had something to do with it?" he asked skeptically.

"I do not know," Ziva answered dryly. "He must be hiding something. Perhaps he does not want the bad publicity an accusation of rape will bring to his bar," she said. "Or perhaps something more sinister is at work."

"Speaking of bad publicity—"

Tony turned at the sound of the Probie's voice, standing up abruptly. He gave the younger agent a haughty look, opening his mouth to bug him about being late. Ziva cut him off.

"What do you mean, McGee?" she asked.

Timothy McGee frowned, looking towards the elevator. He looked back at his team members grimly.

"SecNav is here," he said.

Tony's eyes widened.

"Looks like Jenny's going to have a bad morning," he said ominously.

* * *

><p>NCIS Special Agent Stanley Peterson, head of Director Shepard's personal security, stood off to the side of the parking garage, his arms folded stoically in front of him. A concealed cord ran from his ear to the collar of his suit, the only sign that an ear bud was present.<p>

He kept a sharp eye on the Director even now, as she stood next to her car in right in front of the very capable Agent Gibbs.

Stanley respected and trusted Agent Gibbs, but he was no longer so lax about the Director's security to leave them alone in the parking garage. From a security standpoint, Gibbs was a welcome choice of _boyfriend_ for the Director; he was vetted, he was safe, and he was just as wary of the danger she might be in as Stanley and his partners were.

Personally, however, Agent Peterson thought it unprofessional of the Director to engage in such a relationship with her employee, whether he had once been her superior or not.

But Stanley kept silent. It was none of his business. His business was keeping the Director safe—and he had failed at that recently.

Crackling in his ear drew his attention, and he pressed the pads of his finger to the cord at his neck, clearing the connection. Listening for a moment, he nodded, spoke a quiet, sharp confirmation, and straightened his shoulders, walking forward.

As he approached them, he watched Agent Gibbs touch the Director's face for what had to be the third time this morning; he appeared to be checking her bruise again.

"Can you see it?" Shepard asked tightly, as Agent Peterson got closer.

"Make-up's good," Agent Gibbs responded gruffly.

"Director," Stanley interrupted blankly.

"What?" she asked tightly, turning to him.

"SecNav is here," Stanley said coolly. "He is waiting for you with Cynthia."

The Director's expression didn't change much. Her nostrils flared and she nodded curtly, turning. She gestured with her hand, letting Stanley walk in front of her. He led her out of the parking garage dutifully, a frown etched firmly on his mouth.

* * *

><p>Stanley's frown was nothing compared to the rather formidable scowl on Jenny Shepard's face as she walked into her office. She was followed closely by His Grace, the Secretary of the Navy, a man whom she did not quite like on a personally level and for whom she did quite a bit of ass kissing on a professional one.<p>

He shut the door behind him as she set down her briefcase and walked around her desk.

"You've had a bit of a late start this morning, Jenny," he remarked mildly.

She turned on her computer and pulled out her chair, glancing up at him.

"I am doing remarkably well, Sir, how about yourself?" she responded crisply, her meaning clear.

He cleared his throat, managing to look appropriately abashed.

"Pardon me," he muttered, pausing in front of her desk. "You have an excuse."

"Thank you for thinking so," she bit back sarcastically. She sat down in her chair and shook her mouse to awaken the computer. She leaned forward and rubbed her forehead. "Who told you?"

"Agent Peterson, of course," SecNav answered.

"Of course," she repeated, leaning back. "Have a seat," she said warily. She had not at all been expecting a visit from him this morning, and she was not in the mood to deal with it. She was tired and she was just feeling off.

Clay Jarvis looked offended to be offered a seat by his inferior, but he pulled one up before her desk, interlocking his fingers on his stomach loftily. He inclined his head towards her.

"What were you thinking, Jenny?"

"I wasn't," she answered bluntly, giving him a narrow look. "Can you clarify what you're asking?" she asked sharply, suddenly taken aback by what he had said. Jarvis was a cold man, and she never expected warm fuzziness from him, but his statement was _blatantly_ insensitive.

He looked uncertain to be called out so.

"I mean what crossed your mind, to slip your security detail like that?"

"For a moment, Mr. Secretary, I thought you were asking what I was thinking, getting raped so inconveniently," she mused.

He looked a little pale.

"I misunderstood," she continued briskly, placing her palms on her desk. She opened her e-mail, beginning her usual business.

"Indeed," he agreed, feathers ruffled. "This incident is…unfortunate, at best," he said. Jenny snorted derisively, glancing at him briefly. She sighed under her breath, groaning inwardly at the mass of e-mails she had demanding _personal_ explanations for all of her cancelled meetings and such.

"Who is it on the case?"

"Agent Gibbs' team," she said shortly.

Secretary Jarvis nodded.

"Good," he said. "Gibbs is good," he said again, muttering to himself. "He'll do a decent job of keeping this under wraps so the media doesn't get wind—

"The media?" Jenny interrupted incredulously. "Who on earth do you think is going to go running to the media?"

She scoffed at his suggestion, but the very notion terrified her. Not for personal reasons, but for professional ones. It was one of the worst scenarios the first female director of a federal agency could be put through—a murky sex scandal.

SecNav narrowed his eyes.

"That's the problem," he said in a low voice. "We don't know who might, and we don't have control over third parties. You don't want this story to break."

"You're damn right I don't," she swore, turning her attention to him. She couldn't imagine how horrid it would be. There would be all kinds of questions concerning her judgment. She was unsure how much SecNav himself knew about the circumstances surrounding her alleged rape.

"How far has Gibbs gotten on your case?"

"I don't know," she answered dismissively.

"You don't?" he pushed skeptically. "You aren't directly involved yourself?"

"That wouldn't be particularly ethical of me," she responded pointedly. "Prejudiced victims don't generally run investigations at NCIS, last time I checked. I am allowing Jethro and his team to do their jobs."

She winced inwardly. She had slipped up, and called Gibbs by his first name. She doubted the Secretary paid any mind to it, but it was still worth a mental kick to her own ass.

"Hmm."

He made a noise of indiscriminate thinking. She glared at him and turned back to her computer.

Generally, Jarvis was more loquacious. It seemed he was flustered. She had no doubt it was due to his lack of experience with women and this sort of situation. He had probably garnered some stupid, romanticized version of rape from the _Lifetime_ movies his wife watched.

To Jenny, this _situation_ was just murky, hazy and—and many, many other things she didn't wish to confront.

"Do you need personal time?" he asked abruptly, standing up.

She looked over at him, pressing her lips together.

"No," she answered sharply. "I don't see how that would do any good."

He nodded curtly.

"I'm sorry this happened, Jenny," he said. "Keep me briefed on the developments," he ordered, straightening his suit. "Do not let it hit the media."

She stood, extending her hand to shake with him as she always did. His grip was firm; the usual professional, politically pleasing SecNav handshake. Jenny nodded, inclining her head to indicate her farewell.

He turned on his heel and left, ending his quite short, and very uncomfortable, visit.

Jenny sank into her chair. She covered her face for a moment, breathing out slowly, and fighting the urge to scream in frustration. Her hand shook slightly. Quickly, she leaned forward and called Cynthia on the intercom.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Cynthia," she asked desperately. "Is there any chance of coffee?"

* * *

><p>"Abs," Gibbs said aggressively, stalking into her lab in his usual manner. "You find anything?"<p>

"For the Skarics, or the Director?"

"Who do you think?" he retorted.

Abby whirled around to her computers.

"I have good news, and bad news," she announced. "Which do you want?"

"Abs," he growled impatiently.

"Okay," she said, resigned. "The bad news is no GHB," she paused hesitantly. Gibbs swore in a low mutter under his breath. "There wasn't any in the traces of vomit Tony and Ziva found, and I re-tested her blood and urine samples."

"What the hell's the good news?" Gibbs asked, his gut wrenching.

"I think I found Flunitrazepam," Abby said slowly, biting her lip.

"Flu—what?" Gibbs asked, his brow furrowing. He moved up behind the Goth as she pulled up some charts on her laptop.

"Rohypnol, Gibbs," she said quietly. "Roofie," she clarified. "See, I couldn't find GHB, but I found copious amounts of alcohol, and other compounds kept showing up—I was ignoring them, looking for the GHB," she explained. "When I couldn't find it, I started analyzing the others, and that's what I _think_ I came up with."

"You _think_?" he prompted impatiently.

"Rohpynol is…difficult, Gibbs," Abby said dejectedly. "It's super hard to detect, and you have to confirm its presence using delicate analytical tests—it will take me a few more days, and I'm trying as hard as I can to do it as _fast_ as I can—and it's really rarely used; television makes it seem more common than it is. It's illegal in the US, but it's a prescription drug in some other countries," she trailed off, looking forlorn. "I'm trying, Gibbs," she said again, noticing his dangerous look.

"You think you can do it?" he asked.

She nodded vigorously.

"If it's there, I will find it," she assured him. "I promise."

He nodded curtly.

"What are its effects, Abs?" he asked.

"There can be respiratory problems—and it knocks you out—

"Memory loss?" Gibbs asked.

Abby nodded.

"And it would incapacitate her? The roofie, it would wipe Jenny out? Make her unable to consent?"

"Gibbs, she wouldn't even be able to move," Abby said earnestly.

He swooped forward and kissed her cheek, presented her with a previously hidden-from-sight Caf-pow!.

"Good work, Abs," he murmured. "Find me that Rohypnol!" he added firmly, his voice fading as he stormed back out of her lab.

"You got it, Gibbs," she murmured, saluting the empty doorway.

* * *

><p>"Where's McGee?" demanded Gibbs, coming to stand behind Ziva as she struggled to operate the big screen, projecting the security tapes on to it.<p>

"He is securing a warrant for the bar," Ziva answered promptly. "DiNozzo figured that if Benjamin Howard would conveniently forget to surrender all of the tapes, he might fight us if we pushed for more. So McGee is getting a back-up plan."

Gibbs shot a look of approval at DiNozzo.

"I called that female owner of the bar—Marcia Brady—and I told her what was up. She sounded pretty pissed. Told 'er we were coming back to get the other tapes—and Ziva thinks we'll have a few more questions for Mr. Howard," Tony paused, letting Ziva take over:

"I asked her to call Mr. Howard back in, but to tell him it was simply for her own purposes and to keep the fact that we would be by from him, just in case."

Gibbs nodded slowly, turning to the screen.

"Good work," he said sincerely. "What are we lookin' at?" he asked, inclining his head.

"Ziva noticed something on the tape with her sharp, smart eyes," DiNozzo announced rather loudly.

Gibbs tilted his head at his senior agent.

"You hopin' for brownie points, DiNozzo?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. "Or is there some other reason you need to kiss Ziva's ass?"

"That is a very unprofessional suggestion, Boss," Tony said seriously, sitting up straight at his desk.

Gibbs turned a stern eye on Ziva. She lifted one shoulder, as if to show she could not be held responsible for Tony's behavior. She held the clicker up to the screen, having finally situated it where she needed.

"I went through the tapes, yes," she began, turning their attention to the video. "I saw nothing in particular that piqued my suspicion, nor was there anyone around Jenny who seemed threatening. I watched once focusing on her, and once focusing only on everyone surrounding her," Ziva pressed play, allowing Gibbs to observe a few minutes of the video.

It was simply Jenny walking into the pub. She walked in confidently, strode over to the bar, set her purse down in the seat next to her, and ordered a drink. Ziva immediately paused the video.

"However," she said, "once I discovered the bartender had not given me the tapes I needed, I watched once again and focused on _him_."

"Things are looking worse and worse for Mr. Bartender," admonished Tony, clicking his tongue mockingly.

"Watch him as Jenny sits down and orders," Ziva instructed, hitting play.

Gibbs squinted. The resolution was somewhat fuzzy and his eyesight wasn't what it used to be.

He watched Jenny sit down again. The Bartender greeted her, a warm, enthusiastic smile on his face. He leaned forward and said something. Jenny sat stiffly, didn't seem to respond well, and flicked her hand in the direction of the alcohol shelves.

"Here," Ziva murmured.

Gibbs leaned closer.

The bartender turned to retrieve her drink, but his smile had faded. He looked sour, suddenly, and when he gave Jenny her drink, it seemed like he had slammed it down in front of her without a care.

A few moments later, he stepped out of view of the camera.

Ziva pressed paused.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"Looks like he got pissed at her," Gibbs said.

Tony smacked his hand on his desk.

"It's like she said something to him," he said angrily.

Gibbs pointed to the screen.

"He went to a blind spot," he muttered.

"He does it two or three more times throughout the night," Ziva said, nodding her head. "He is the bartender; he knows very well what the cameras can see where."

"Have you run this guy through to check records, criminal past?"

Ziva nodded.

"He has nothing major, a few traffic violations, and he is behind on alimony payments to his ex-wife," she said. "He has never been finger-printed or had DNA taken."

Gibbs scowled, narrowing his eyes at the paused screen.

"Play more," he ordered.

Ziva complied.

For the next ten minutes, Gibbs watched Jenny order shots. He watched the bartender's face stay sour and unhappy. He squinted, studied, stared, trying to see if at any point someone tampered with Jenny's drink.

He grunted and leaned back, indicating Ziva should cut the tape short.

"You think Bartender had something to do with it, Boss?" Tony asked seriously, standing up slowly.

Gibbs glanced up to the Director's office darkly.

"I think we need to pay him another visit."

* * *

><p>The Director hung up with a senator who was thoroughly convinced her cancellation of their meeting was an outward expression of her womanly fickleness in committing to his biochem defense project.<p>

She mildly considered showing him _exactly_ the meaning of 'womanly fickleness' and refusing now to support his bill even if she had promised to—but she entertained such a thought silently, and would never follow through.

The ability to ignore prejudice and show them who's boss was what had gotten her this corner office in the first place.

Nevertheless, the constant cheeriness she was putting on to explain away all of the schedule rearranging Jethro had forced her hand in was taking its toll, and as she turned to her computer, she was suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue—

-and, in a very rare turn of events, she experienced a weak moment, and developed an irrational desire to have Jethro in the room with her, even if he didn't say a word.

She reached over and called Cynthia on the intercom.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Send Agent Gibbs to my office," Jenny ordered guardedly.

Cynthia answered affirmatively, and went about following Jenny's orders. A few moments later, she crackled to life over the intercom.

"Director, Agent Gibbs is out in the field."

Jenny glared at the intercom.

"Get me Officer David, then."

"Officer David is in the field with Gibbs, Ma'am," Cynthia answered.

Jenny rolled her eyes. And to think, Jethro had thrown such a fit about Ziva working with him in the first place. Damn hypocrite always took her with him in the field.

"I suppose it's too much to ask for DiNozzo?" she tried sarcastically.

"The entire team is out of the building," Cynthia answered apologetically.

"Then you may call Agent Gibbs, Cynthia, and ask him how he can possibly be an adequate agent if he needs a four man team to question one man."

Cynthia remained silent for a moment.

"Are you serious, Director?" she asked slowly.

Jenny rolled her eyes and stood up.

"No, Cynthia, I am not serious," she patronized, shutting off the intercom. She picked up her purse as she came around her desk and left her office, marching into Cynthia's outer one confidently.

Cynthia sat up straight, clearly attempting to look as if she had been busy. Jenny wasn't fooled; there was nothing for poor Cynthia to be doing. All appointments had been cancelled. Cynthia was no doubt as bored as Jenny was; she just had nothing weighing on her mind.

"Take a break, Cynthia," Jenny said, nodding her head at the door. "We're going to have lunch."

Cynthia stood up and whipped off her headset. She smiled, slipping into Cynthia-the-friend mode, rather than Cynthia-the-Secretary.

"Sure, Jenny."

* * *

><p>"You can do," began Marcia Brady sharply as she let the NCIS agents into her bar, "whatever you want to him. You can punch the little smart ass in the nose if you have to," she growled, closing the door behind them.<p>

"You and your bartender have a spat, Ms. Brady?" Gibbs asked, arching an eyebrow.

DiNozzo and Ziva had made it sound like the bartender was relatively well-liked.

"Professional differences," she corrected. "Out of the blue, too, if you must know. I like the guy, but if he can't remember that I'm his boss and get his ass here when I call him, he might be out of a job. BENJAMIN," she shouted harshly, calling for him as she finished complaining.

"That is not the only reason he may be out of a job," Ziva remarked smoothly, planting her feet.

She folded her hands together and held them in front of her. Ms. Brady folded her arms, setting her jaw.

"Do you think he had something to do with this?" she demanded, her eyes flashing angrily. "I will not have it, so help me. Not in my bar. I run an upscale establishment and this is trailer park trash," she snarled.

"Easy, lady," DiNozzo placated charmingly. "We just have a few more questions."

"I've heard that before," she scoffed. "BEN, GET OUT FRONT," she shouted. "Cops are back!"

Ms. Brady turned and marched over to a table with a box on it.

"_I_ pulled the garage tapes for you, and I looked at 'em, too," she said heatedly. "Our cameras out there are not exactly top notch, but I think they've been tampered with."

Gibbs looked at McGee.

"Will you be able to tell?" he asked.

"Between Abby and I, yeah," he answered.

"You shouldn't have looked at the tapes," Gibbs said to Marcia Brady. "It compromises evidence."

She glared at him and snorted, as if blowing him off. She rolled her eyes, turning sharply. She opened her mouth to yell again, but Benjamin Howard came around the corner, looking annoyed—not at all as friendly and cooperative as he had yesterday.

"Fancy seeing you again, Big Ben," DiNozzo greeted loudly.

"Well, that's one I've never heard before," the bartender retorted snidely.

"Cooperate, Howard," barked Ms. Brady. She turned on her heel. "I've got paperwork to do. I'll be in the back if I'm needed."

She stormed off, still muttering to herself. McGee saw to the box of tapes, folding it up, and tucking it under his arm. Howard folded his arms and stood stiffly, waiting for someone to say something to him.

"I told you what I could," he said bluntly, shrugging his shoulders.

"You sure about that, Big Ben?" DiNozzo asked antagonistically, tilting his head. "'Cause I'm pretty sure I asked you specifically for the garage tapes. And I'm starting to think you specifically left them out."

Howard scoffed.

"I must've missed 'em," he said, nonchalant. "Look, I don't want trouble and I didn't cause trouble."

"Your actions speak to the contrary," Ziva said shortly. "I reviewed the tapes you sent to NCIS," she continued, narrowing her eyes. "It appeared you were not too happy with," Ziva paused. She remembered that the bartender had not been told the Jenny's name. "You were not too happy with the victim."

"We're still talkin' about the redhead?" asked Howard.

Gibbs nodded curtly.

The bartender scowled.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," he insisted. "I treated her same as I treat every customer. Little bit of friendly conversation, then leave her alone. That one really wanted to be left alone," he snapped. "Truth be told, she was kind of a bitch."

Gibbs moved imperceptibly, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

"She was a '_bitch_'," he repeated coldly, drawing the bartender's attention.

"Yeah," he answered, annoyed. "Wasn't too friendly."

"Huh," Tony broke in thoughtfully. "Funny. You seemed to think she was a 'pretty bird' last time we talked. Didn't have any hard feelings towards her," he reminded Howard.

"Well, most pretty girls are bitches," Howard said with a shrug. "Ain't that right?" he gave DiNozzo a look, and shot a sour look at Ziva.

"I don't know what you're implying, Big Ben," DiNozzo answered dangerously.

"What did she do to piss you off?" asked Gibbs gruffly, stepping forward. He gave Howard a penetrating, suspicious look, standing at full attention. Tony stood off to the side, hesitant. Gibbs was pretty formidable when he took charge, and he looked twice as pissed right now.

Benjamin Howard looked torn. He scowled, shrugging his shoulders.

"Acted like she was too good for the rest of us," he said bitterly.

Gibbs moved his head, narrowing his eyes.

"Too good for you?" he probed. He smirked mirthlessly. "She, ah, turn you down, Ben?" he asked, searching for the right buttons.

Howard bared his teeth.

"Hang on," he snapped. "Hang on just one minute—do you think I raped her?"

Gibbs didn't answer. He continued to glare disconcertingly at the man in front of him, thinking of the bruises on Jenny's face and legs. He set his jaw, reigning in the sudden rage that flared. He tried to push Jenny from his mind.

"You aren't doing yourself any favors," DiNozzo said bluntly. "Insulting her, leaving out tapes, making yourself look suspicious…" he ticked off the list, raising his eyebrows. "Come to think of it, bartenders have every opportunity to slip roofies in drinks," DiNozzo said, as if discovering a brand new theory.

"I just forgot about the tapes!" Howard barked, throwing his hands up. His eyes shifted like panicked, cornered prey's. He turned to DiNozzo with a vicious look, his eyes popping out of his head. "You're trying to tell me that squealing little cunt wants to pin her drunken exploits on me as _rape_?"

Tony looked thrown by the aggression in Howard's statement.

Gibbs stepped forward and grabbed Howard's flailing arm, twisting it harshly behind the bartender's back. He pushed Howard forward onto a counter top and cuffed him, the click echoing loudly. McGee sort of gasped.

"Watch your language," snarled Gibbs, grabbing Howard by the scruff of the neck and yanking him up. "You're under arrest."

"For what?" demanded Howard, struggling with Gibbs. Gibbs shoved him forward, coaxing him to walk. Something in the way Howard had insulted Jenny made Gibbs think the bartender had known her at some point.

Still, he had no qualms about roughing the bastard up.

He didn't ever want to hear profanity such as _cunt_ applied to Jenny again. Not in his lifetime.

"Withholding evidence," barked Gibbs.

He forced Howard out the front door.

* * *

><p>"Director," said Agent Peterson as the elevator doors opened to the main floor. "Agent Gibbs is waiting in Miss Summers' office."<p>

Jenny nodded to show Stanley she had heard him. She passed through the bullpen, and noticed that the backpacks and gear of the team were back in their usual spots. A criminal record was up on Gibbs' flat screen, and McGee's computer was running diagnostics, but none of the team was present.

Agent Peterson stopped a few feet in front of the outer office, turning and assuming his usual stance as security agent outside the door. Director Shepard continued on her way, adjusting her purse on her shoulder.

Jenny had stopped outside the building on her way back from lunch, choosing to have a conversation with an Agent she had worked with previously. Cynthia had hurried on up to return to her work.

The secretary was sitting at her desk uncertainly when Jenny entered.

"Gibbs," Jenny greeted with a nod. She inclined her head towards her office door. "Hold my calls until Agent Gibbs leaves, Cynthia," Jenny directed.

"Yes ma'am."

Gibbs followed Jenny into her office and shut the door.

"We got a suspect," Gibbs said bluntly.

"No foreplay?" Jenny asked dryly, setting her things down on her couch. She walked to her desk and leant her palm on it, looking at him carefully. "Who?"

"The bartender," Gibbs answered. Her brow furrowed, but she didn't say anything. "Benjamin Howard," Gibbs went on, looking at her intently.

She shrugged, perching on the edge of her desk.

"I didn't catch his name," she said humorlessly, her eyes dull.

Gibbs frowned slightly.

"He says he knew you," Gibbs prodded.

Jenny looked taken aback.

"He says— she broke off, scowling. "Benjamin Howard?" she asked, tilting her head. She repeated the name a few more times, shaking her head. A look of frustration crossed her green eyes. "How the hell does he know me?" she demanded.

"He ran his mouth somethin' about how he was never good enough for you," Gibbs responded slowly, trying to trigger a memory.

"Good enough for me?" snorted Jenny. She looked as if she was going to scoff at the man's presumption when she stopped, and faltered. "_Ben_…Howard," she said slowly. She looked confused, biting her lip. "I knew a Ben Howard in high school…when I was at Fort Campbell," she murmured. "He was a nice kid, though."

She frowned, looking pale. Her heart skipped a few beats. Jenny did not like coming into contact with people she had known in high school, though there were few who really remembered her. She spent so little time at so many schools because of her father's military career that she hadn't had too many friends.

"_Was_," repeated Gibbs pointedly, looking angry.

Jenny crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes.

"You think it was the bartender?" she asked, almost in disbelief.

Gibbs lifted one shoulder.

"He's all we've got," he said.

But she knew the look in his eye; she knew how his gut worked. Jethro thought it was the bartender. He was half-way to making up his mind already.

"What's his motive?" asked Jenny skeptically, lowering her voice.

"Well, I don't know, Jen," Gibbs responded sarcastically. "What did you do to him in high school?"

She blinked as if she'd been smacked. Her eyes narrowed.

"I'm quite certain I did nothing to warrant his dragging me to the backseat of my car and raping me," she responded icily.

That, she was sure of. She hadn't been mean in high school, nor had she been aggressive, shallow, or rude. What she had been was standoffish and somewhat…promiscuous.

Gibbs nodded curtly, walking forward.

She looked down, took a breath, and looked back up.

"You bring him in?"

Gibbs nodded.

"For an interview?"

"No, I arrested him," Gibbs growled. "He's in interrogation."

"You arrested him already?" asked Jenny, sucking in her breath.

"I arrested him for withholding evidence," Gibbs muttered. She nodded, swallowing as she watched him. He studied her silently and shifted his weight, leaning forward on the desk next to her

He turned his head.

"You want to watch?" he asked in a low voice.

She nodded curtly.

"You sure you want to hear it?"

"He won't confess, Jethro," she said skeptically.

"No," Gibbs agreed, lifting a shoulder. "He might say other stuff."

Jenny arched an eyebrow.

"You think I got this far in life without being called a bitch one or twice?"

Gibbs smirked slowly. He lifted his chin, but didn't say anything.

"It comes with the territory," she said.

He nodded slowly, squinting his eyes some.

He turned his head and looked down at her legs, his gaze drifting up to the hem of her skirt. He frowned, unaware of her eyes following him, he himself thinking of the evidence beneath the expensive material.

"Jethro," she began.

"I don't like it," he growled quietly.

She wasn't quite sure what he was talking about—did he mean the rape, the injuries, that she had been called names in her life? She didn't have the chance to demand clarification.

DiNozzo barged into the office, looking uncertain when he saw them so close. Gibbs straightened up, remaining silent. Cynthia appeared meekly next to DiNozzo.

"I told him to stop," she said, exasperated.

"Sorry," DiNozzo breathed. "But you need to start in on Howard, Boss. Ziva's scaring the daylights out of him, and I think he might remember he can have a lawyer."

Gibbs nodded and turned, beckoning shortly at Jenny as he started to leave.

"He's learning bad habits from you," Jenny muttered under her breath, nodding at DiNozzo as they passed.

"Comes with the territory," retorted Gibbs.

She rolled her eyes.

* * *

><p>"It seems rather sexist," remarked Jenny calmly. Ziva raised her eyebrow, glancing at the Director briefly. Jenny smiled. "To have us women stand and watch the men do their work," she continued.<p>

Ziva smirked and turned back to the observation glass, shaking her head slightly.

"Sexist," the Israeli repeated skeptically. "Or smart," she said, tilting her head. "Gibbs knows you would kill him, and I would torture him."

"Why do you get to do the torturing?" Jenny asked in mock offense.

"You do not like torture, Jenny," Ziva reminded her.

"I don't like killing, either," the redhead reminded her friend grimly.

Ziva made a noise in the back of her throat, and both of them turned their eyes to the interrogation room, where Gibbs and DiNozzo sat with Benjamin Howard.

Jenny titled her head, and narrowed her eyes. He did not look particularly familiar to her, but maybe she had some inkling of the boy he had been at Fort Campbell High School. He had been a nice kid—he had to have been something, if she had made an impression. She had only attended for two semesters, and not even a complete two.

Her father had been transferred permanently to the Pentagon, and they had moved back home.

She folded her arms stiffly and focused on the scene in front of her. DiNozzo straddled a chair and leaned forward, smacking some gum loudly.

"You want to start, or should we, Big Ben?"

* * *

><p>White noise buzzed on Abby's computer screen.<p>

"So it's been tampered with?"

"McGee. We're looking at _snow_ where security camera footage should be. _Yes_. It's been tampered with."

Abby hit McGee gently in the shoulder, rolling her eyes.

"Well, I was just making sure, Abby."

She gave him a look, and arched an eyebrow as if to ask _"Really?"_. She turned back to her screen and frowned.

"The snow lasts from one a.m. to four a.m.—what time did Gibbs say the Director showed up at his house?"

"Right before five," McGee answered grimly.

"Is this guy an idiot?" Abby growled, moving some things around on her computer.

"Seems to be," McGee muttered. "Can you recover anything?" he asked.

"It depends," Abby said conversationally. "He didn't just erase the footage, or whoever tampered with it didn't, so I may be able to get rid of the snow and find the images underneath, so long as he didn't just erase the footage and then somehow record over it with snow," she explained. "Still, there is no guarantee that the footage recovered will be decipherable or usable. It could just be nonsense grainy images."

"Okay," McGee said slowly—reluctantly. He wished he could tell Gibbs something better than that. "You tell Gibbs," he said grimly.

"I don't want to tell him!" she squeaked.

"He won't hit you!"

Abby opened her mouth, then smiled, and nodded. It was true Gibbs had never in the course of his time at NCIS lifted his hand to Abby's head. She was probably the only one to have never received a patented Gibbs-slap.

"Did you find anything else? Did you finish analyzing that Rohypnol?"

"It won't be done until tomorrow morning, but I doubt it will turn out to be anything else," Abby scoffed. "My gut is pretty good too," she bragged.

McGee snorted.

"I hope so," he said, brooding.

"I'm ready to run DNA matches as soon as Gibbs gets me a sample," Abby said. "You can send him down and I'll tell him about the tape if you really want," she offered.

McGee looked relieved. He turned to go, and then he stopped, puckering his lips thoughtfully. He lifted his hand in question.

"Abby, did you know Tony and Ziva were sleeping together?"

"Yes," she answered breezily. "Yeesh, Tim, everyone knows that. Where have you been? Next you're going to tell me you just found out about Gibbs and Jenny."

She smirked, and then, upon turning to laugh at him, noticed the look on his face.

"_Muh_-GEE," she groaned, utterly exasperated by his lack of perception.

* * *

><p>"I don't like being told what I did and did not do," snapped Howard.<p>

"Okay, Big Ben," DiNozzo said with a patronizing eye roll. "Why don't you tell us YOUR version of what happened?"

"There isn't anything to tell," Howard insisted. "Look, she came in. She ordered a drink. She ordered about fifty more drinks. She got wasted, and she stumbled out to her car. End of story. I didn't do anything."

"You over served her," pointed out Gibbs quietly.

"You want to prosecute me because she can't hold her liquor?" Howard demanded, tossing his hands up. "Buddy, I took her keys, and then I served 'em up for her. This is DC. She coulda taken the metro for all I care."

"You didn't take her keys," Gibbs said narrowly.

"Oh, I didn't? I took 'em and put 'em in the key jar. Check the tapes."

"Well, Ben, we don't really trust the tapes right now," DiNozzo sighed dramatically. "Not since you tampered with them."

"I didn't touch the damn tapes!"

"You didn't take her keys," Gibbs repeated shortly. "She drove herself home."

Howard stopped, scowling. He sat back, looking confused for a minute.

"Did we stump you, Ben?" asked Tony in mock sympathy.

"I _did_ take her keys," he said slowly. "I took 'em after her seventh shot," he insisted, frowning. "I musta given 'em back before close," he muttered.

"Well, that wasn't very smart now, was it, Ben?" asked Tony. "Giving an intoxicated _woman_ her keys—what, with women bad at driving sober," he joked, laughing sardonically.

Howard set his jaw and crossed his arms.

"You gave her back her keys," Gibbs said. "And then?"

"She left," barked Howard.

"She steady on her feet?" Gibbs went on.

"She had more'n seven shots of tequila," retorted Howard.

"That a 'no'?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah, it's a _no_."

"So you took her keys, and then gave them back to her after she was wasted," DiNozzo said slowly, in a tone as if he were trying to figure it out. "Sounds fishy, Boss," he said, turning to Gibbs.

DiNozzo whirled back to Howard.

"Sounds like you had an ulterior motive," he said.

"I—what?" snapped Howard. "You think I wanted her to get a DUI or somethin'? You navy cops are goddamn crazy."

"I think you wanted to take her home," DiNozzo said.

"And she said no," Gibbs threw in in the same cool voice.

"No," said Howard vehemently. "No. There's nothin' fun in sleeping with a drunk woman," he growled.

"And how about roofied women, Old Ben?" asked DiNozzo sharply. "They do it for ya?" He smirked, inching closer to Howard, still straddling his chair. "You like it better when she's unconscious, not judging your performance?"

Gibbs shot a warning look at DiNozzo. Jenny was watching from behind the glass. Gibbs couldn't stop what Howard might say, but he didn't want DiNozzo getting sleazy on him.

Howard slammed his fist onto the table, shaking.

"Easy, buddy," warned DiNozzo.

"I didn't tamper with the tapes, I didn't slip anything into anyone's drink, and I sure as hell didn't rape your Director," he shouted, his eyes going red and bulging again.

When Ziva had informed him just who he was being accused of raping, he had turned pale with panic. That panic had not quite dissipated, and Gibbs and DiNozzo were not soft men to face down.

"Well, I'd like to believe that, Big Ben," Tony said conversationally. He held up a tube of plastic encasing a cotton swab. "Can we borrow some DNA? Won't hurt. I'll give it right back."

"Hell no," Howard said firmly.

"Shouldn't be a problem," Gibbs drawled, a very subtle threat in his tone. "If you're innocent."

Howard's eyes flashed. He sat back, his hands shaking with anger and nervousness.

"I want a lawyer."

* * *

><p>Jenny rubbed her temples in irritation and threw a wooden spoon into her sink, leaning forward.<p>

"This is ridiculous," she said tightly. "It's as if I'm under house arrest."

"You are," retorted Gibbs coolly, looking up from a box of takeout.

"I understand the tightened security," she growled, "but to ban me from staying at your house? An NCIS _safe_ house? What is Peterson thinking— she trailed off, muttering under her breath.

"He's thinkin' last time you said you were with me, you weren't," Gibbs pointed out sharply. "And he isn't gonna let it happen again."

Jenny whipped around and rolled her eyes, shooting her kitchen table a baleful look.

"I should have stayed in the field," she said vehemently. "Nobody but _you_ gave a damn what I did in the field, and _you_ I can handle."

Gibbs arched an eyebrow at her, snorting quietly under his breath. He'd have to remember that.

"Give 'em a break, Jen," he warned. "They're trying to keep you safe."

"I'm thirty-five years old, Jethro!" she burst out. "I can take care of myself!"

"Yeah?" he asked, bristling slightly. "Then you tell me how you ended up on my doorstep in the middle of the night."

She snapped her mouth shut, narrowing her eyes at him. A quick retort bubbled to her lips—something about how she couldn't help that; she couldn't help that someone had spiked her drink—but she held it back.

She knew she had been lacking enough in responsibility, considering how drunk she had gotten, to be reprimanded.

A sour look etched on her normally pleasant face, she turned her head away, staring stalwartly at the oven.

She pushed away from the counter and walked to the table, looking distastefully into her half-eaten Chinese.

"I'm going to bed," she said dully, her voice resigned. "You don't have to stay, Jethro. Go home."

Jenny left the kitchen, a cold shoulder in her wake. Mildly surprised at the sudden change in demeanor toward him, Gibbs remained sitting, casually finishing his Chinese with his chopsticks.

Abby would have definite answers concerning the Rohypnol in the morning. NCIS' legal department should be finished with a warrant for Howard's DNA, and if they had any luck, Abby had also gotten something off the tampered-with tapes.

And when that was done, Gibbs could put the son of a bitch behind bars.

And he could try and pick of the pieces of whatever it was he and Jenny had broken, and figure out if she wanted to put them back into whatever they had had before this happened.

Gibbs stood up and went into the study, taking up his position on her couch again.

She was an idiot if she thought he was going home.

* * *

><p><em>-Credit to Miss Mila for Beta Work<em>

_Leave some feedback; it's much appreciated.  
>-Alexandra <em>


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: You know, I always did like M. Allison Hart. Enough that I refer to my room mate Alison as "Malison". _

_Now; Who's excited for "Devil's Triangle"? I for one am anxious to see how 'Mr. Woodchuck' handles the impending train wreck ;)_

* * *

><p><strong>5<strong>

"Oh, yeah," Abby Sciuto said, blowing air through her lips as if she were bored. "Oh yeah," she said again, nodding her head confidently. She turned and smirked at Gibbs, expecting a Caf-_pow_!...or better—a kiss on the cheek.

Gibbs, instead, was just staring moodily at the screen.

"Did you hear me, Gibbs?" she prodded, arching an eyebrow.

"It's a match?" he asked coolly.

"Oh, Gibbs. _Gibbs_! It's more than a mere match. It's the matchy-est match I've ever matched—oooh, I sound like Doctor Seuss."

"Abs," he growled, warning her.

She gave him a look.

"Howard's DNA matches the skin under the Director's nails, the semen on her skirt and from the rape kit, and the saliva on her collar—"

"Saliva?" Gibbs interrupted curtly.

Abby nodded.

"I found dried saliva on her oxford's collar when I went over it," the bubbly forensic scientist explained.

Gibbs looked momentarily nauseous, and Abby frowned, disheartened by his look.

"Gibbs?" she asked.

"Go on," he ordered, giving her a nod to show his approval.

She beamed.

"My tests came back on the Flunitrazepam," she began confidently. "I'm ninety-percent positive the Director was roofied and the Rohypnol was in her system, but for safety, I sent the sample to a friend I have in a sex crimes unit. He confirmed it one-hundred percent."

Abby turned around, clasping her hands.

"Abby," began Gibbs.

"Good job?" she asked hopefully, her eyebrows going up happily. "I got you the proof of drugs and handed you a perp," she reminded him.

He smiled slightly, leaning forward finally to reward her.

Gibbs kissed her cheek swiftly, nodding affectionately in the direction of her computers.

"Put it in the report; send it to Ziva," he said.

"Where are you going?" Abby cried, shuffling after him worriedly.

He didn't answer, but she heard the elevator, and she already knew anyway.

Gibbs was going to pay Howard's sorry ass a visit.

* * *

><p>But he was stopped.<p>

"Boss," barked Tony in a strained voice, as Gibbs marched through the bullpen, heading straight for his desk drawer and the sig inside of it.

Gibbs shot DiNozzo a look to show he was listening.

"McGee, get the arrest warrant from legal," he ordered, waiting for the senior agent to speak.

Yesterday, they had a warrant drawn up for Howard's arrest in the event his DNA matched. It had taken longer than expected to even secure a warrant for his DNA, and so it had been about forty-eight hours since Howard's attorney had sprung him from the 'withholding evidence' charge.

"Hang on," Tony said, standing up. He picked up a remote off his desk, looking apprehensive, and pointed at the nearest TV to Gibbs' desk, un-muting the usually silent electronic and flicking up the volume a couple of notches.

He pointed, as if breaking bad news gently.

At first, Gibbs' noticed nothing interesting about the usual blonde, chirpy ZNN reporter—until his eyes were drawn to the picture displayed next to her dramatic face.

He narrowed his eyes, searching for the headline.

'_Agency Director Accuses Local Bartender of Rape'._

Gibbs swore, his jaw tightening.

So they had managed to keep it under wraps for a grand total of four days.

"How did they get the story?" Ziva asked angrily, bristling. Anger flashed in her dark eyes. "Gibbs, the media cannot show the Director's photo like that, they cannot release her name! She is a victim of a sex crime!"

Indignant, Ziva's eyes widened and she bared her teeth in a growl when Gibbs waved his hand at her, telling her to be silent. He grit his teeth and slammed his palm down on the table.

"DiNozzo," he snapped, pointing with two fingers at McGee and Ziva. "Take her. Bring him in. If he fights you, break his neck."

"Aye aye, Boss," DiNozzo said grimly, jumping to get his gear. Ziva followed suit, a truly dangerous look of acidity etched on her face.

"McGee," directed Gibbs in a low voice. "Find out who leaked the story."

"On it Boss— began McGee.

But his voice faded inconsequentially as Gibbs turned on his heel and went for the stairs to her corner office.

* * *

><p>"Agent Jakob," the Director said crisply. "Warranted as your actions may have seemed at the time, you executed an unauthorized operation on foreign soil. Do you have any idea of your actions' repercussions?"<p>

A disgruntled, annoyed, and dusty looking man scowled at her from MTAC's large satellite screen, a headset secured on his ears. He squinted in the desert sun that ruled his location in Tanzania.

"I understand, ma'am, but at the time it seemed—

"You were told not to proceed with your line of action!" Jenny interrupted sharply, lowering her chin to glare as best she could over satellite. She was frustrated; Jakob always bucked her authority and this was not the week for her to handle it maturely. "Agent Jakob, I am growing tired of your _incessant_ need to assert your masculinity. I am well aware of our numerous anatomical differences, and it is not in your best interests to continue to point them out in a manner that can only be considered misogynistic and reminiscent of cavemen. Now," she paused, lifting her chin back up boldly, "I expect a detailed report of your actions, including your insubordinations, and know that until I am finished reviewing the political ramifications of your actions you are on suspension. Clear?"

Agent Jakob looked livid. His eyes widened and he began to focus on a point just past Jenny's left shoulder.

"Crystal, ma'am," he said stoutly, his face an expressionless mask suddenly.

Jenny nodded, and drew her hand across her neck in an order to cut the feed.

She stood looking at the screen for a moment, exhilarated by the confrontation. She would be remiss if she didn't admit to herself that she was taking a moment to enjoy the spotlight; she had seen Gibbs skulk into MTAC right before she started in on Jakob, and she relished the idea of his witnessing her display of authority.

It often served to remind him that she was no longer the quiet, observant, somewhat hesitant Probie he had seduced in Paris.

After a moment of basking in her glory, she turned around. MTAC had returned to its usual buzz and murmur.

"Do you have something for me?" she asked Gibbs, lowering her voice and inclining her head.

Though there were whispers, they had managed to keep the fact that they were investigating a case with the Director as a victim relatively quiet. NCIS was still quietly buzzing about the 'oddness' of Agent Gibbs' team's sudden swerve away from the gruesome Skaric case, but the other agents turned diligently back to their own caseload.

"Come with me," he said shortly, jerking his head towards the exit and turning to go.

"I have things to do, Agent Gibbs," she said loudly. "I am not at your beck and call."

MTAC quieted a little.

Gibbs threw her a cold, nasty look, annoyed at having been chided in front of the techs like some errant child. He knew it was for show; it was part of the armor that had no doubt gotten thicker since she felt so weak after the _incident_.

He moved back over to her slowly, reaching out and taking her wrist in a vice-like grip.

"Drop the act, Jenny," he said in a low voice, making sure no one would hear him disrespect the Director's authority. "You need to see somethin'."

He pulled her firmly with him, and she did her best to make it look as if she began walking herself. It would not do to have her employees witness her being marched from a room by a subordinate.

Once the heavily fortified metal door shut behind them, Gibbs let go and walked a few strides ahead.

"I saw you throw up in autopsy, Direc-_tor_," he mocked curtly. "Don't pull a stunt like that again."

"I could say the same of you, Agent Gibbs," she snapped.

An agent or two looked up to the catwalk, interested by the rising voices.

Oh, it was nothing, they saw. Just the Director at Agent Gibbs' throat again.

She threw open Cynthia's door and shot a livid look at Jethro over her shoulder.

"You do not have the same privileges in the boardroom that you do in the bedroom, Jethro," she said icily.

Cynthia, busy studiously ignoring the fighting pair, reacted only by raising her eyebrows a little.

"I don't recall having any privileges recently, Jen," barked Gibbs, slamming the Director's office door. Cynthia smirked as the last of his words faded away.

"I guess all the tension just turned into workplace friction," he said when they were alone.

Jenny turned to him on her heel, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

"What is so important?" she demanded, hissing through her straight, white teeth.

He snatched her remote off of the conference table and flicked on her big screen, well aware that it would already be tuned to one of the news stations—and no doubt if it were on ZNN, it would also be on MSNBC, FOX, and everything else.

Jenny's eyes flashed as she looked to the screen. He watched her watch the program for a moment. He watched it slowly sink in that she was looking at a picture of herself—the picture that had been in the paper when she'd been announced as NCIS' new director.

She turned frighteningly pale.

"…_the source, naturally, wished to remained unnamed, but viewers, you can be certain this isn't the last we'll hear of whatever seems to be unfolding at NCIS_…"

Perhaps the most mocking part of all was the scroll along the bottom of the screen that broke down the NCIS anagram and explained the duty of the agency.

Jenny shuddered. To think, the first big exposure the agency got to the media and the nation was a sex scandal.

"Turn it off," she said.

Gibbs did.

He threw the remote down.

"Important enough?" he asked shortly.

She stared at the blank screen for a moment. She yanked out a conference table chair and sat down, her mouth fading into a small, tight line.

"How did they get that?" she asked, thrusting her finger at the screen.

"Workin' on it," he answered slowly.

She bit her lip, and lowered her hand. She looked as if she might say something, and then rubbed her forehead violently, sliding her hand down to cover her mouth.

"Son of a bitch," she swore in a hoarse whisper. Her hand landed with a thud on the table as she dropped it from her mouth. "The whole damn thing is going to go public," she hissed. "The case, the trial—god damnit," she trailed off, leaning back angrily in her chair. "Jarvis is going to have a heart attack."

Her lips turned down in a sour scowl as she referred to the pompous Secretary of the Navy.

Gibbs frowned, walking forward. He leaned on the table next to her.

"Go home," he suggested.

"Have you lost your _senses_?" she retorted, shocked. "I cannot have it look like I'm hiding, and I certainly can't let it look as if I'm incapable of performing my job because of this!"

He shrugged. The agent side of Jenny had never cared much what others thought of her.

"My job is at stake," she said shakily.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Ah, come on, Jen," he said. "Don't be dramatic."

She looked at him with harsh eyes.

"It isn't a joke, Jethro," she snapped. "This is bad. This kind of publicity is incredibly difficult to recover from and if it isn't handled impeccably— she trailed off again, shaking her head miserably.

Jenny got up abruptly from the table.

"I appreciate you showing me," she said dully, walking to her desk. "Get back to the bullpen, Jethro. The last thing we need is the press starting to whisper about our relationship."

She picked up her phone, searching things on her computer.

"What are you gonna do, Jen?" he asked carefully.

She flicked her eyes up at him.

"I'm calling a campaign manager I went to college with," she said shortly. "I need someone who can manage the media while I do my damn job."

He nodded curtly.

Gibbs started to leave and then changed his mind, switching direction and coming up next to Jenny as she punched in the number she'd located. He reached down and wrapped his hand around her wrist, stroking her pulse point gently.

He leaned close and kissed Jenny's temple, letting his lips linger, offering support.

She smiled and wrapped a few fingers around his, then slipped her hand out and waved him off casually.

"I am calling for Ms. Hart," he heard Jenny say as he swung open the office door to leave. "Yes, tell her it's Jenny for Maggie."

* * *

><p>"Where is he?" Gibbs asked curtly, as DiNozzo came back into the bullpen and dropped his backpack loudly on the floor.<p>

"Interrogation."

"What took so long?"

"We had to wait for the lawyer to get to his house!" Tony squawked.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes.

"We brought in Marcia Brady, too," DiNozzo added.

Gibbs turned an eye on him intently, arching an eyebrow to ask why.

"She called," Tony continued. "Said she might have talked to the press."

"_Might_ have?"

"Well, those were her words," Tony muttered.

"She in the conference room?" Gibbs asked.

Tony nodded. Gibbs got up and swiped his notepad out of his drawer, readying himself for an interview.

"What about Howard, Boss?" Tony asked.

"Let 'im sit on his ass for a while," growled Gibbs.

* * *

><p>"Sarah Jane is a close friend of mine," Marcia Brady said reluctantly. "We had lunch. I was pissed about Howard's arrest, and I went on a rant," the bar owner explained.<p>

"What made you think it was okay to tell a news reporter everything?" Gibbs asked incredulously, looking at her like she had lost every single one of her marbles.

"Well, frankly, I thought we were off the record. I forgot that nothing is off limits for Sarah Jane," Brady said somewhat bitterly. A sour smile twisted her lips. "I wanted to drag _Howard_ through the mud, not Director Shepard."

"You know you can be charged for giving the name of a sex crime victim—

"Wait," Brady threw a hand up and interrupted. "I didn't do that. I bitched about Howard and told the newscaster what was up, but I didn't tell them her name, I just said 'some woman'."

"You didn't give Director Shepard's name out?" Gibbs repeated, arching an eyebrow skeptically.

"No," Brady agreed. "I didn't. You think I'd want that plastered all over ZNN if it were me? Hell, no—I didn't tell Sarah Jane who was raped."

"Then how did the whole damn city find out?" Gibbs growled.

Brady leaned forward brazenly, looking cool.

"I can't answer that," she said tensely. "All I can say is it wasn't me."

"You said you leaked the story," Gibbs pointed out.

"I didn't know you wanted to put me in jail for slander or— Brady grit her teeth. "Look, I came forward because I slipped up. But I didn't slip up that much. I'll take a lie detector test, I'll swear under oath. I didn't give that poor woman's name to _anyone_."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes, studying her intently. He set his jaw, nodding once quickly. He believed her. He thought something more sinister was at work—Howard had a lawyer, and lawyers sometimes pulled _stunts_…

Gibbs stood up.

"You're free to go, Ms. Brady," he said gruffly, giving her a more courteous nod.

She gathered her things and thanked him in a clipped, professional tone as he let her out of interrogation. He summoned McGee to lead her out, storming into the bullpen.

"Pull up the Skaric case," he barked.

"Boss?" Tony said uncertainly. "What about Howard-?"

But Tony broke off when he saw the look on Gibbs' face, and immediately set about following the Boss's orders.

It seemed they would be letting Howard sit on his ass until he was really ready to talk.

* * *

><p>A shadow fell over his desk.<p>

Gibbs liked to ignore it when things like this happened. It irked him when people just _stood_ in front of his desk as if he were supposed to jump up and attend to them. He thought the shadow was feminine because it was small, but his senses told him it wasn't Ziva.

He also knew Ziva was in interrogation observation listening to Howard's conversation with his lawyer.

"Director Jennifer Shepard," announced the shadow.

Gibbs did not respond immediately. The words were spoken in an authoritative, slightly inquiring manner—very businesslike and determined. Slowly, he looked up, and discovered he had been right. The shadow had been female.

"No," he drawled pointed, pointing at himself. "Special Agent Gibbs."

The female, a tall woman with thick, long dark hair and a stylish fitted suit, seemed taken aback by his comment. But only momentarily; she kicked an eyebrow up as if to ask what kind of childish game he was playing, and a small, irritated wrinkle appeared in the bridge of her nose.

"Forgive me if I don't see anything _special_ about you, Mr. Gibbs," she replied a little icily. She tilted her head insistently. "Where can I find Director Shepard?"

"All you had to do was ask," Gibbs patronized. He lifted his hand and pointed up to the catwalk, leaning back a little. "She lives up there."

The brunette, with her briefcase, turned on her heel to follow his direction.

"It's polite to say thank you," Gibbs said after her, feeling the need to irritate her for some reason.

"I don't have a master's degree in politesse," she snapped back, her back already to him.

There was no one around to watch him, so he leaned forward and watched her walk away, his brow furrowing—he wondered what business she had with Jenny.

* * *

><p>"Director, Miss Hart is here."<p>

Cynthia's voice came crisply over the intercom and Jenny sat up, shaking off whatever had been going on in her head. A small smile sprung to her lips and she stood up, placing her hands on the desk.

Margaret Allison Hart walked in the door as a perfect picture of 'professional', but as soon as she shut it, she dropped the act, and she was Jenny's favorite college roommate again.

"Maggie," Jenny greeted, beaming.

The brunette crinkled her nose and smirked, leaning across the desk to kiss Jenny's cheek.

"Jen," greeted M. Allison Hart pleasantly.

Jenny gestured for her friend to have a seat and sat down herself once Hart had pulled one up.

"Long time no see," Hart said mildly. "I think we had coffee when you came back to take this position."

Jenny bit her lip somewhat apologetically, but Hart just grinned.

"The Secretary of the Navy threw you into a minefield, I know," she justified.

"Something like that," muttered Jenny. "I would have had someone escort you up, had you warned me," she went on.

"Oh, I found a reluctant helper," Hart answered grimly, her eyebrow lifting slightly. "A certain Mr. Gibbs who thought himself quite amusing informed me that you _lived_ up here."

Jenny frowned slightly. She was caught off guard by Allison's irreverent reference to Gibbs.

"Jethro?" she asked quizzically.

"I suppose," Hart answered. She pursed her lips, pausing suddenly. "Jethro?" she repeated sharply. "_That_ Jethro?" she asked, her tone rising in a scoffing manner.

"Maggie— began Jenny pleadingly.

"That's _the_ Jethro?" Hart made a face, pouting her lips a little. She clicked her tongue. "Jen, he's a boor."

Jenny rolled her eyes slightly.

"He isn't a boor," she defended half-heartedly. "You met him for all of a minute."

"Jenny," Hart said pointedly, "He made you sound like a dungeon troll, when he said you lived up here."

Jenny gave a short bark of laughter, cataloging that comment for later.

"Well, if I'm a troll and he's a boor, we're meant for each other," she said airily, leaning forward. "I didn't call you here for girl talk, Maggs."

For a moment, Hart looked as if she had more to say on the _that_ Jethro/Girl Talk subject, but she held back. She took on a somber expression.

"I know," she said carefully, "and I'm only vaguely aware of why you called me. I have a television in my office but I can't— Hart paused. "I can't quite wrap my head around it."

Jenny snorted derisively. She stood up.

"Let's move to the conference table," she said dully.

"Right," Hart said, slipping into business mode. "You need me to handle a defamation suit?" she asked professionally. "I assume? ZNN is reporting that you're accusing some bartender of rape because you were miffed at him—

"No," Jenny interrupted sharply. The slightly pale, angered look in her eyes told M. Allison Hart that the redhead hadn't heard all of that yet. "Allison, I _was_ attacked," she said seriously, sitting down with the other woman.

Hart's pale blue eyes widened like saucers.

"Raped?" she asked softly.

"After a fashion," retorted Jenny sarcastically. "It's a sticky situation; there's alcohol abuse and Rohpynol involved," she said reluctantly.

"Roofies," murmured Hart. Her brow furrowed. "Alcohol abuse? That doesn't sound like the Jen I know," she snorted. She cocked her head. "What got _you_ to heavy drinking?"

"That is better reserved for the girl talk portion of our reunion," Jenny answered, delicately and dryly. She did not particularly want to delve into the aspect of the issue that involved Jethro when Allison seemed to have immediately developed such a dislike towards him.

Hart nodded. She dropped her briefcase on the conference table.

"You will need me for a defamation suit, probably," she said matter-of-factly.

"Perhaps," Jenny said. "But I'm going to need you for publicity and damage control before anything, not to mention press releases. I've seen you take volatile, sticky crime-and-sex scandals and dress them in the bible until the public forgets anything was wrong."

Hart smiled smarmily.

"Oh, stop," she said half-heartedly. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"I was thinking all those secrets I know about you from college would," retorted Jenny.

"No need to bust out the big guns," soothed Hart. She took a pen from her pocket and clicked it with her teeth, her eyes cooling to professional again. "I have to know everything if I'm going to spin it."

Jenny grit her teeth and started from the beginning—again.

* * *

><p>Gibbs barged into the interrogation room, storming irreverently past Ziva and Howard's lawyer, who were talking just outside of it. A cry of annoyance from the lawyer did not stop him; he just kicked out his usual chair and smacked a folder down on the paper.<p>

"What's the idea?" barked Howard, sitting up. "I've been sitting in here for hours—

"Shut up," growled Gibbs, opening the folder violently. He spread out test results on the table in front of Howard and pointed to them. "These confirm your DNA, matched to Director Shepard's' clothing, car upholstery, and underneath her fingernails," he snapped, narrowing his eyes as he stared down the bartender. "You want to tell me again that you didn't rape her?"

Howard looked surprised.

The lawyer stormed in.

"Agent Gibbs, your treatment of my client is absolutely _appalling_—

Gibbs shot the woman a murderous look, and in that time, Howard seemed to compose himself and decide how he was going to answer.

"All that stuff says is that we had sex," he said loftily, thrusting them towards Gibbs and folding his arms loftily. "Not my problem if she wants to call it rape now."

Gibbs yanked a few photographs of Jenny's injuries out of the file.

"She consent to that?" he asked viciously, pointing to a nasty photo of her bruised face. He went on to a picture of her scratched thigh, much as it sickened him to show this man any inch of Jenny's bare body. "That?" he asked, lowering his voice threateningly. "She let you hit her?"

Howard glared at Gibbs.

"Do not say anything, Benjamin," the lawyer said fiercely. She dusted off her shoulders, pulling herself up to her full height. "Agent Gibbs wants you to admit to something you didn't do."

"You raped her," Gibbs said forcefully, pointing in Howard's face. "I got you, dirt bag," he growled, keeping his language as clean as humanly possible. He felt like his muscles were going to catch fire from the painful effort it was taking to restrain himself from strangling the bastard.

Howard leaned forward and slammed his hand down in front of him.

"You don't have anything!" he snapped, annoyed. "We fucked, and she changed her mind about it the next morning. Too good for the common folk, just like she was in school," he hissed bitterly. "I don't give a damn if she cries rape."

"Benjamin! Quiet!" the lawyer interrupted sharply. "Agent Gibbs, I must ask you—"

Ziva interrupted the lawyer.

"A mere two days ago you were of the opinion that you had not even been to her car with her," Ziva said silkily. "Now you have changed your mind, and decided you slept with the Director, and claim she was willing."

He blustered, caught off guard by Ziva's cool approach.

"I said I didn't—I didn't want this to—she was saying I raped her! What was I supposed to—god dammit!" he broke off, his face going white, his eyes red. He jumped back, standing up, his eyes going wildly to his lawyer. "I'm not sayin' anything else," he decided, panicked.

"Lock 'im up," snarled Gibbs, sweeping everything into Jenny's file and straightening.

"HEY!" cried Howard, starting after Gibbs. Ziva calmly took him and cuffed him again, preparing to take him to NCIS lock-up. Gibbs didn't look back, walking out stiffly, ignoring even the lawyer as she railed that Howard would be out in hours.

He had the upper hand, but he knew this wasn't the end, and he didn't have time to listen to the lawyer bitch.

* * *

><p>"Wait, who's taking the interview on the Skaric case?" Timothy McGee asked uncertainly.<p>

"Ziva is. She's good at getting secrets out of people," DiNozzo replied, turning around from the plasma in front of him.

"So I'm—

"Dealing with the paperwork for the Director's case," DiNozzo interrupted authoritatively. "Matching stories, typing stuff up—make sure you get everything right, or it could jeopardize everything. And don't use that dumb font you did last time—and you're also going to talk to the Lawyer and—

"Tony, stop acting like you're the boss," whined McGee grumpily, already dutifully doing his job.

"I am the boss when the boss isn't here," retorted Tony primly.

"DiNozzo, stop acting like you're the boss," Gibbs said shortly, storming into the bullpen right on cue, coffee in hand. He looked tired, angry, and harassed, and went to his desk, standing in front of it.

He set his coffee down and rubbed his face, looking around with narrow eyes.

"What's up, Boss?" McGee asked seriously.

Gibbs leaned forward on his desk.

He hit his fist against it briefly, then picked up his coffee, sipped it, and glared at them both.

"Get to work on the Skaric case, both of you," he ordered.

"But the Director's report—

"I'll take care of her," said Gibbs aggressively. "It's in the damn lawyers' hands now."

* * *

><p>M. Allison Hart rubbed her forehead gently and frowned.<p>

"We'll have to let it lie for about forty eight hours," she said slowly, narrowing her eyes at her notes. "You know, see how the public reacts, and figure out which direction to take."

Jenny nodded, chewing on her bottom lip. She leaned forward, pushing her hair back in frustration.

"What do you think?" she asked quietly.

"It could be anything," Hart answered dully. She scowled. "Clearly, this guy wants to shed a bad light on you before it goes public that you were assaulted. He's already tried to destroy your credibility, and there could be any sort of backlash," she said analytically. "You could have people think he's despicable, or you could have people tearing you apart—they attacked you left and right when you were appointed, didn't they?"

Jenny nodded grimly.

"Because you're female?" asked Hart shortly.

"That was part of it," Jenny answered. "I moved through the ranks fast. They talked like they always do."

"In other words, they were asking who you fucked," Allison asked bluntly.

Jenny laughed sarcastically.

"Let's not go there," she said jadedly.

It had been hard enough to get past those petty arguments back when she'd first come to NCIS as Director. No one seemed to believe she was good at her job and had worked hard, no—she must have been sleeping with _someone_ along the way to be promoted within _six_ years to running the agency.

The affair with Jethro had been like a shadow hanging over her head; she had dreaded someone finding out about it. That story breaking would have demolished her credibility and crushed her career; it never would have been believed that her relationship with Jethro had nothing to do with her promotions.

Only she would know that, had she continued to sleep with Jethro back then, she'd probably be a divorced head field agent instead of a single agency director in a pickle.

Though the 'single' part was negotiable—come to think of it, so was the fact that she had stopped sleeping with Jethro.

"Right," murmured Hart, arching an eyebrow. She smirked. For a moment, she hesitated, and then she rubbed her forehead again, leaning back. "You know it could come up," she warned bluntly.

"There was always some chance of that," Jenny answered neutrally. She held Allison's gaze stoically, and Allison tilted her head, studying Jenny. She pursed her lips and leaned forward, blinking suspiciously.

"Jenny," she asked hesitantly. "Is there still something going on between you two?"

The redhead moved her hand slightly on the table. She compressed her lips, remaining silent on the subject. It was always better to leave that question unconfirmed—and frankly, it was personally unconfirmed at the moment; _she_ didn't know where they stood, and the public sure as hell didn't need to know.

Hart swore quietly. She nodded, as if she had her answer.

"Are you prepared to answer questions? What will you tell them if it breaks?"

"I have no comment on my personal life," responded Jenny coolly, a very scripted, safe line.

M. Allison Hart snorted.

"It's good enough for now."

"It's irrelevant right now," Jenny reminded the brunette.

Hart nodded. She clicked her pen and slipped it behind her ear, pushing her thick hair back.

"NCIS has a publicity manager?" she asked. Jenny nodded, and Hart put her notes in her briefcase. "I'll need to speak with him, or her. I'll go over a few scenarios, but we'll lay in wait for a while—sound good?"

Jenny stood, recognizing that Allison needed to get back to Capitol Hill. Hart stood up, slipping the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder. She leaned forward and hugged Jenny warmly.

"Sounds good," Jenny said quietly. "I appreciate this, Maggie," she said warmly.

Hart released Jenny, straightened, and winked.

"Drinks tonight, then?" she asked.

Jenny looked pale, and shook her head firmly.

"No drinks," she said hoarsely.

"Ah," Hart cringed, backtracking. "No drinks," she agreed. "Coffee?"

"And ice cream," Jenny added. "My place," she offered.

"Eight?"

"Make it nine."

"You can tell me about the boor."

* * *

><p>"I have a pizza," DiNozzo announced from behind a warm pizza box the moment his favorite Israeli-exchange-agent opened her apartment door.<p>

"I did not notice," Ziva answered seriously, allowing him in. She bolted the door behind him, checking to make sure the locks were tight.

"No need to fear," DiNozzo announced gallantly. "Your knight is here—you needn't lock doors! I shall protect thee!" he said goofily.

"Will you protect me as you did the time there was a snake in the bathtub?" Ziva snorted, remembering the time she had not only had to dispose of the reptile, but coax Tony down from the kitchen counter.

He glared at her, dropping the pizza from his height to the living area coffee table.

"That was a really big snake. I hate snakes."

"You hate snakes because Indiana Jones hate snakes."

He glared at her again, and then pointed at his pizza box.

"Do you want some? I got it with pineapples on it."

Ziva's eyes glowed happily, something he felt like he hadn't seen in a few days. She retrieved paper plates from her pantry and handed him one, flicking open the box and snatching a piece. She remained standing.

"Well, get comfy," Tony said, flopping down on her couch and lounging out.

"You look like a couch tomato," Ziva insulted.

"Potato," corrected DiNozzo, wrinkling his nose. He snorted, cackling at her faux pas. "You're getting worse."

"Hmpf," Ziva snorted, still standing and eyeing him critically.

He stroked the couch next to him and wiggled his eyebrows, patting the cushions. She simply shook her head, eating as she stood up.

He frowned and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"What's wrong with you?"

"There is nothing wrong with me," she answered immediately. "That is a very rude question."

He made a skeptical noise.

"There is too something wrong."

"There is not."

"Is _too_."

"Are we going to fight like children?"

Tony looked confused.

"That's kind of the basis of our relationship," he said smartly.

"I do not like it anymore," she said bluntly, shrugging her shoulders. She sat down in an armchair, abandoning her pizza and leaning back. She looked at him with her sharp, dark eyes.

His silly personality seemed to evaporate from his eyes. He looked upset, concerned, bewildered. He frowned, lifting his shoulders, and spreading his palms out in a sort of plea.

"Me?" he asked, his mouth quirking up in a half-smirk. He didn't understand what she was saying. Was she mad at him suddenly? What had he done? Nothing had changed. Just a few days ago, she had said it was just sex.

She shook her head.

He glared at her defensively.

"You've been different since Jenny was attacked," he said.

"You do not use the word 'rape'," Ziva pointed out sharply. "Why?"

His mouth moved soundlessly.

"I dunno," he said, annoyed. "I don't like to think about it. It pisses me off."

"It pisses me off," Ziva agreed. She looked away, resting her chin in her palm. "You are uncomfortable with it."

"So?" Tony snapped, feeling cornered. He didn't know what was going on.

"Why?" Ziva asked, turning her dark eyes on him again.

He glared at her, folding his arms and leaning back.

"It's dirty," he said.

"Dirty?" the word fell from her lips as if squeezed from her throat by violent hands. Her eyes widened and flashed—cheeks flushed red. "It is not Jenny's fault!"

"I didn't mean that!" Tony burst out, looking horrified. "I mean I—I don't want to think about her like that—I don't want to think about some guy just…_using_ her, it makes me _sick_, it's—it's disturbing," he stopped, glaring at Ziva. "Why does it matter?" he asked angrily.

Ziva looked at him intently, her mouth a thin line. She shrugged her shoulders shallowly, remaining silent.

"I don't like this, Ziva," he barked, standing up. "The Director's part of my team, too, I'm just as mad as you are."

"No you are not," she snapped viciously. "You will never understand how angry I am."

Tony blanched, falling silent.

"Dammit," he swore. He clenched his fist.

"Jenny is lucky," Ziva announced blankly. She stared at Tony.

"_What_?" he asked, his jaw falling open. And she had thought him insensitive. "She's _lucky_ she was raped?" he spat the word, giving her the satisfaction of hearing him say it.

"She is lucky she does not remember it," Ziva answered in a low voice.

Tony grit his teeth, about to lash out, and then deflated, narrowing his eyes. He squinted and walked forward, putting his hands on the back of her sofa. He tilted his head, his mouth fading into a small dangerous line.

"Are you— he began tightly. "Are you saying you remember—you've been raped?" he demanded.

She blinked at him slowly.

"Of course I have been raped," she said mechanically. "I was a woman in the Middle East. It is a common fate, particularly in my line of work."

Tony kicked the back of her sofa.

"When?" he asked.

She looked flippant, cold.

"Cairo," she said icily. "I prevented it from happening to Jenny."

She looked away, staring stonily at the windows.

"You never told me!" he accused.

"I have just told you."

He kicked the back of the sofa again, anger molten in his veins. He felt the same thing he had seen in Gibbs' eyes these past few days; he felt the anger he had felt towards Jenny's attacker magnified by ten—and he felt a crushing sense of hopelessness.

"You are uncomfortable with it," Ziva repeated.

DiNozzo clenched his fist and rubbed his chin, walking around the sofa. He stood behind her armchair and leaned over the back of it, reaching down push his fingers through her thick, curly hair. He pulled her head back, looking down at her. His chin rested on the chair.

"I don't care," he murmured, shrugging. He squeezed her shoulder, rubbing her collarbone gently.

She looked at him, her throat moving sensually as she swallowed.

"It feels like losing your soul," she hissed huskily, Hebrew eyes shining.

* * *

><p>"Ducky?"<p>

Doctor Donald Mallard looked up from the finishing touches he was putting on the morgue as he closed up from the night. He turned his desk light on, eyebrows lifting in welcome surprise.

"Abigail," he said warmly. "Heavens, why are you still here?"

"Oh, you know," she said. "Still working on the Skaric case for Gibbs, and Moscovitz needed a favor. And I can't sleep, so why go home?"

Ducky looked curious, taking his hat off slowly.

"I need some wise-old-Ducky talk," she said, beaming.

The good doctor beamed right back, and began to slip off his travelling gear.

"Shall we brew some tea?" he asked, opening a drawer for the leaves.

Abby plopped down in a chair and sighed happily, glad to be accepted, even if she was holding Ducky up from his return to a nice, cozy home and some much-needed sleep. She unbraided her pigtails and combed her fingers through her hair, frowning.

"What is it, my dear?" Ducky asked paternally.

He began to make tea, a task that was second nature to him. While it steeped, he folded his hands studiously and sat down, eyeing Abby intently. She sighed, pouting a little.

"The Director," she confessed. "And Gibbs. I'm worried about Gibbs."

"Ah," sighed Ducky, nodding. "Things are bad, indeed," he agreed dismally, returning her frown.

"They were mad at each other," Abby said, folding her arms across her stomach, "and then this happened, and I don't think Gibbs is mad at her anymore, but I don't know. And I'm worried my findings aren't good enough to convict the bad guy," she said in a rush. "I mean, we did our thing, but it's more than our usual thing, Ducky," she said.

He nodded.

"We aren't use to being dragged through the trial," he supplied. She nodded, tilting her head.

He twisted his mouth sympathetically. It was true; if the team was involved in cases, it was for professional testimony in front of a Grand Jury, not much more. When this went to court, it would be personal and messy, particularly since it had exploded in the media.

He could see why Abby was upset. There were many things about his occurrence that could blacken Jenny's names, and drive wedges between all of her favorite team members.

"But I'm worried about _El Jefe_," she said, pouting again.

Ducky got up and tended to the tea.

"Gibbs can take care of himself, Abby," he soothed.

She looked at him in surprise.

"No he can't," she said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "If he could, he would stop hurting himself."

Ducky turned, his eyes wide, studying Abby. An interestingly perceptive thing for her to say—Jethro did have a painful tendency to ruin his relationships, relationships that he needed and cared for—and he had been precariously close to shattering his second time 'round with Jenny these past few weeks.

Ducky knew, and Abby knew—and the team knew, because both had been hell to work with; Jenny and Gibbs.

"Ducky," Abby began. "Do you think Jenny will be okay?"

"Yes," he answered confidently.

"How do you know?"

"She has too many people who care about her for her not to be," he answered simply. He began fooling with the almost-ready tea, and Abby smiled, comforted some.

"I should give her back her brass knuckles," she said, brightening.

Ducky chuckled.

"That is a wonderful gesture, my dear," he said, nodding. He poured two cups of tea and handed one to Abby, settling in for a friendly, late-night conversation. "If you ask me," he said slowly, "this is not quite as bad as some other things the Director has been through."

Abby tilted her head curiously sipping the hot tea carefully. She nodded; content not to ask anything else. The Goth settled back, a little more content, a confident look in her sparkly, effervescent green eyes.

"I can get her justice," she said matter-of-factly. "Me and Gibbs together, we won't let the bad guy get away."

* * *

><p>Thinking nothing of it, Gibbs just barged into Jenny's house. He did it all the time—though he hadn't done it in quite a while. She had left the office at a somewhat early hour without speaking to him, and he was concerned, though he was reluctant for her to know that.<p>

He had spoken to Peterson outside in the drive, and he was slightly less anxious, but he was still suspicious.

"Jen," he called cautiously, warning her of his presence. He didn't want to startle her or piss her off (or both) in the process of just wandering around her house. She tended to react adversely, and he was already in the doghouse.

He heard a clattering of metal and a moment later she peeked out of the kitchen, looking surprised.

"Jethro?" she asked softly, her eyebrows going up.

She stepped into the hall, brushing her hands off on an old pair of yoga pants.

He blinked.

Her hair was pulled back messily into a half-hearted ponytail, her make-up was a little smudged, and she wore a t-shirt that was frayed at the sleeves and hem, and had a haphazardly cut V-neck at the collar.

She looked comfortable.

"What are you doing here?" she asked mildly, tilting her head. She folded her arms over her stomach, pulling her shoulders back.

He caught sight of the bruise on her cheek, darkened to brown and greenish and black, like an old bruise-stain, more visible because her foundation and powder and rouge had faded. He found it hard to look away, and briefly flicked his eyes to hers.

"My job," he answered gruffly; mysteriously.

She frowned at him slightly.

"I'm not your job," she said stiffly, pursing her lips.

He didn't answer, glaring at her cheek. She reached up to touch the spot, wincing.

"Stop," she hissed. "Stop staring."

He looked her in the eye.

"You left without telling me."

"You don't need to know my every move, Jethro," she admonished shortly, drawing back some.

He reached up and brushed his fingers under his chin, reaching out to clasp her shoulders in his hands. His jaw locked up.

"I want to know," he said under his breath, looking as if he would say something else.

She parted her lips, lifting her rows inquiringly.

"Am I interrupting?"

Jenny's houseguest made herself known, poking her head out of the kitchen slowly, much in the same way the redhead had.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes as the very same brunette who had been a pain in his ass earlier today leaned up against the doorway of Jenny's kitchen and ate ice cream in what could only be described as 'in an _annoying_ way'.

"Yes," Gibbs answered petulantly. "What is she doing here?" he asked Jenny. His tone indicated that, had he been five-years-old, he might have stomped his foot for emphasis.

"There is no need to be so childish, Mr. Gibbs," remarked Irritating Brunette.

Gibbs shot her a glare.

Jenny lifted her eyes to the ceiling, her lips compressed. She tilted her head at her friend.

"Give us a minute," she said with finality.

Irritating Brunette ate another spoonful of ice cream annoyingly and sashayed back into the kitchen.

"She's assisting with the press," Jenny said in a low voice. "And she's my friend."

"You have terrible taste in friends," Gibbs retorted accusingly. "She's a pain in the ass."

"Give it a rest," Jenny said warily. "If I wasn't around, you'd be sleeping with her," she threw out boldly, rolling her eyes. She nodded her head towards the kitchen, letting him in.

He was at least pleased she wasn't going to boot him out in favor of Irritating Brunette. However he did grumble in outrage at her suggestions.

"Last time I checked I don't sleep with brunettes," he growled quietly.

"Oh, so it's my hair," Jenny answered blithely.

The woman looked up, having heard the tail end of Jenny's comment.

"I was always jealous of your hair," Jenny's friend remarked.

Gibbs glared at her.

"I do not believe you two have formally met," Jenny said loudly. "Maggie, Leroy Jethro Gibbs—"

"You're kidding."

"—Jethro, Margaret Allison Hart."

"Got a problem with my name, _Maggie_?" asked Gibbs.

"Not at all. Though it seems your parents had a problem with you," she fired back smartly. "Do not call me 'Maggie'."

Gibbs looked pointedly at Jenny.

"She goes by Allison professionally," Jenny prompted helpfully.

He shrugged.

"How do you two know each other?" he asked suspiciously.

"We were room mates in college," supplied Jenny shortly. "Allison has degrees in Public Relations and a Master's in Communications; she's working on a doctorate in Political Science, and you may be working with her."

"That all I need to know?" Gibbs asked, still glaring at Irritating Brunette.

He made up his mind to call her Maggie. Especially if it pissed her off.

"That's all you get to know," Maggie said sharply.

Gibbs shrugged again. He glared at her and she pulled a spoon away from her mouth. She pointed at him with it, looking annoyed.

"Did he knock?" she asked.

Jenny shook her head.

Maggie shot Gibbs a look, narrowing her eyes icily. She clearly didn't approve of the presumption of his action, and it made Gibbs wonder just what she and Jenny had been talking about over their womanly ice cream.

Jenny sat down, kicking out a chair for Gibbs.

He chose to stand.

"What do you want, Jethro?" she asked haggardly, well aware he was there for other reasons than just being _worried_ about her—though she was sure he was sincere when he implied that he was.

He should be worried about her; but she wouldn't tell him that. She had been feeling increasingly upset the past few hours and though she hadn't had time to figure out what was bothering her, it was suffocating, and even talking to Maggie wasn't helping.

"Howard's arraignment is in four days. District is gonna put the indictment at sometime next week," Gibbs informed gruffly. "You need to talk to the prosecutor."

Jenny nodded, taking a spoonful of her own ice cream. She sucked on the metal, staring at him guardedly. She arched an eyebrow when she wanted to hear more.

"The press isn't going to drop it."

"That's the smartest thing you've said yet," Maggie said mockingly, pointing her spoon at him again. Gibbs ignored her, but a muscle in his temple twitched in annoyance. The brunette shoved her bowl away, leaning forward.

"You'll have to make a statement before the arraignment, Jenny," she said. "Even if NCIS issues a formal one. Get your accusation out before this guy pleads not-guilty."

Jenny removed her spoon and looked at Jethro.

"Is that his plea?" she asked.

"I don't know," Gibbs said roughly. "The lawyers are bargaining. His isn't going to deal."

"She wants to drag me through the mud," Jenny said grimly, understanding.

Gibbs just nodded.

Jenny pushed her bowl away, brushing escaped strands of hair back.

"Am I back to business as usual?" she asked brusquely.

"Whatever you want, Jen."

"_That's_ something I never hear," she said with a smirk.

"Do you not know how to respect authority, Mr. Gibbs?" Maggie asked.

"Maggie, don't antagonize him."

"But it's _fun_."

Jenny sighed.

Hart laughed, and stood up. She turned and then turned in a circle, searching. She picked up her purse.

"I have to get going, Jen," she said easily. "Senator Hopper'll need me early tomorrow—he doesn't know it, but something big is about to break."

Jenny nodded, standing up to walk her friend out.

"Aren't you going to say goodbye, Mr. Gibbs?" Hart asked sweetly, tossing her long dark hair over a thin shoulder fetchingly.

He looked at her pointedly.

"Goodbye, _Maggie_."

She scowled at him, turning on her heel.

"_Boor_," she mouthed at Jenny, preventing Gibbs from seeing or hearing. Jenny just smirked tiredly and walked Allison out, seeing her off warmly.

She had enjoyed the time with her friend, but she was feeling more and more like she couldn't breathe. She didn't know what it was—if it was the spiraling nightmare of the media frenzy, or the fact that she was still struggling to come to grips with what had happened and she was about to be thrust into the murky waters of a trial before she understood her emotions and actions.

It might be that she hadn't slept well in days, or that her head was killing her.

She didn't go back into the kitchen; she contemplated going to bed and letting Jethro decide if he would stay—she knew he would; he'd sleep on the damn sofa again, and hurt his back and his knees and everything.

But she made it as far as the stairs and sat down, exhausted and overwhelmed, weighed down by the maelstrom that was going to hit, and awash with dread. She felt violated and confused and just tired—she still didn't remember anything, she didn't understand if she and Jethro were still fighting, and she had a dark feeling—a bad feeling.

She leaned her head against the wall.

Gibbs came out of the kitchen, searching for her once a good ten minutes had passed. He sat down next to her on the stairs without a word, and touched her shoulder, shaking her gently.

"You need sleep, Jenny," he said quietly. "Come on, bed," he coaxed. She didn't move. "What is it?" he asked tensely.

She shook her head back and forth, closing her eyes. She bit on her lip hard enough to make it sting, and it backfired—she had wanted to hold back tears, but the sharp, sudden pain forced them out from under her eyelashes.

"I feel sick," she said hoarsely, her hand shaking in her lap. "Jethro," she moaned, her voice rising in pitch. She turned and curled up, burying her head in his lap.

Gibbs rested his hand on the back of her neck, clenching his jaw tensely.

It was becoming harder and harder for him to keep his anger under control.

* * *

><p><em>-This is one of my favorite chapters.<em>

_Credit to Miss Mila for Beta Work. Feedback appreciated!_

_-Alexandra_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Louise Fernandez: Howard's Lawyer: the character is borrowed from Michael Crichton's book "Disclosure", a novel about a man who is sexually harassed by a woman. Don't hate Louise too much; in the book, she's an absolutely FABULOUS lawyer and she defends the harassed male. It's a good book; read it. _

* * *

><p><strong>6<strong>

"All eyes have been on the Navy Yard since the story broke last week that NCIS Director Jennifer Shepard had brought an accusation of rape against local bartender Benjamin Howard. The suspect, whose story is at odds with the Director's, claims he is being used as a scapegoat for yet another sex scandal indulged in by someone of political power. Though no recent information has been released since NCIS's formal statement before the arraignment, at which Howard pled not guilty, we may receive some answers today, upon conclusion of the arraignment…"

Jenny turned off her television.

She narrowed her eyes at the blank screen.

"Ugh," she scoffed. "They're using 'Jennifer'," she whined.

"That's all you're concerned about?" asked M. Allison Hart incredulously.

Jenny looked at her pointedly, leaning back against her desk. She perched on the edge of it uncomfortably.

"That is all I want to be concerned about," she answered.

The redhead set her remote on the desk and folded her arms, as if daring Allison to dig into her about it. Hart smiled wanly.

"I can issue a statement informing the press to call you 'Jenny'," she offered in mock seriousness.

"Because, after that, I would be taken _so_ seriously," Jenny remarked, lifting an eyebrow.

"You'd have something to laugh about," Hart said.

Jenny just shook her head.

"What's next?" she asked Allison.

"Well, you wait. If he's indicted by a grand jury, then things are going to catch fire. The public loves sex scandals and trials, and this will be both. If he isn't indicted, you'll have to deal with the backlash that will hit your credibility. Have you talked to the SecNav?"

"Briefly," Jenny answered. "Before and after arrest, and once yesterday."

"What's his temperature?"

"Jarvis is high strung," Jenny responded carefully. "He is not happy about the negative exposure, and he claims it's taking away from half the Navy Yard's ability to do their jobs."

"Do you think so?"

Jenny frowned stiffly.

"My agents aren't so easily distracted," she said protectively. "I think Jarvis is spooked by the sudden kinks in his daily routine."

Hart nodded. She sighed and lifted her shoulders.

"Tell him his routine will get kinkier—and it won't feel good," Allison quipped.

"Either way, he isn't in to it," Jenny retorted. She smirked and stood, turning on her heel to grab some files off of her desk.

"I'll give Cynthia a call once the verdict is out, see if you're available," Hart said, preparing to leave herself.

Jenny nodded curtly.

"It may be tomorrow morning before I can get to you," she warned. She looked up and rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't believe the shit the Rota agents get themselves into."

* * *

><p>"It had to be either her father or her uncle, and both are creeps—neither have a valid alibi," DiNozzo said slowly, his eyes on the smiling school picture of the dead little Skaric girl.<p>

The seven-year-old murdered beauty queen stared back at him innocently, a fake grin plastered on her made-up face.

"Why do we keep ruling out the mother?" asked McGee, annoyed at having been ignored. "You can't convince me she knew _nothing_ about the hormones and drugs her daughter was being injected with."

"But the father and uncle were the ones who pushed her in to pageants," Ziva supplied. "The mother didn't want her exploited."

"Or she says she didn't," McGee said skeptically. "I get a bad feeling when we talk to Irena Skaric, I think she's a snake."

"You think you have a magic gut now too, McGibbs?" mocked Tony.

The real Gibbs' hand immediately collided with the back of Tony's head.

"Don't call him that again," he warned, marching over to his desk.

"Didn't mean to make you jealous, Boss," Tony joked half-heartedly.

"Did Abby match the fingerprints on Nina Skaric's cheeks?" Ziva asked.

Gibbs just shook his head.

"She thinks they were planted; they're not smudged, and they're too perfect to be made in a struggle," he said quickly. "Grab your gear; we got a body at Pax River."

"Another one?" McGee groaned.

"You got a problem with your job, McGee? Go home," barked Gibbs, leading out of the bullpen.

Tony shot Ziva and Tim a look.

"Did somebody break a mirror?" he swore.

They hadn't gotten a break since Nina Skaric's case had been handed to them.

* * *

><p>"Here is the official report for the Director," Abby Sciuto said, her chirpy nature somewhat demurred. She handed over the thick file to Gibbs and eyed him intently.<p>

He took it with one hand and unceremoniously dropped it on the corner of his desk, nodding once curtly.

"Good work, Abs," he said, focused on whatever he was doing.

She put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. She stared at Gibbs, tilting her head.

"That's it?" she asked shrilly.

He looked up slowly.

"What do you want me to do Abby?" he asked gruffly.

"Tell me he's going to _jail_," responded Abby fiercely, folding her arms across her chest.

"Can't do that."

"Why not?" she demanded. "It's all there. _His_ DNA. Flunitrazepam. He did it. I _proved_ it."

Gibbs leaned back and rubbed his chin, looking at her silently. He nodded.

"Yeah, you did," he agreed.

Abby sighed, frowning.

"But," she said heavily. "The lawyers get it now."

"S'how it works, Abs."

"I hate lawyers," Abby grumbled. She stamped her foot. "I've been watching the news. Gibbs, they're going to say awful things about her. Some already have. It's _mean_."

Gibbs frowned. He had not been watching the news—a story about Jenny wasn't going to induce him to watch TV any more than the other programs available, mostly because whatever they said about Jen didn't matter to him.

Abby's words bothered him, though.

"What '_things'_?" he asked in a low voice.

"Different things," Abby answered hesitantly. "Some people are nice and say how it's an example of women still being victimized in the work place, but some say she's lying and she's the worst kind of manipulative woman—

Abby continued to talk a little. Gibbs glanced up to the catwalk, eyeing Jenny's office. She had been in MTAC while they were in the field this morning, and Cynthia had said she was in a meeting with that annoying brunette campaign manager when the team had returned.

"—but it will be okay, right, Gibbs?"

Abby drew him back to her.

He blinked, and then he nodded.

Abby beamed. She turned and looked around the bullpen.

"Where are the others?" she asked.

Gibbs looked around.

"They had better be working," he said ominously, arching an eyebrow.

He wasn't going to admit he had been so distracted by Jenny (on top of all of the other cases) that he didn't actually know where his team was.

* * *

><p>Their conversation had been casually professional and a bit shallow so far. The bubbly little waitress at Ziva's favorite lunch café dropped off drinks, took their orders, and left her customers to it.<p>

Ziva examined the salsa she had scooped onto her chip suspiciously.

"What came of the Pax River body?" Jenny asked, lounging back in her chair. She was more relaxed out of the office. Ziva's choice of café was out of the public eye, another bonus, and Jenny did not feel as if she had to be on her very tiptoes.

"We were called in because he was found in the woods," Ziva said. "But it appears that the petty officer was not murdered but suffered from an aneurysm while cutting firewood. Ducky will confirm, of course."

Jenny nodded, stirring sugar into a sweet tea. She frowned a little.

"Then your focus won't be pulled from the Skarics for long?"

Ziva shook her head in the negative.

"I do not think Gibbs would let it go even if the Pax River body had been a big deal," she remarked madly. "He is like a—a cat catching a mouse?"

"Dog with a bone," corrected Jenny with a smirk.

"That too," agreed Ziva. "I do not think Gibbs knows what to do, faced with your case and the little girl's case."

"Hmmm," murmured Jenny neutrally, refusing to comment on what Gibbs' emotional state might or might not be. She knew damn well that the Skaric case was nettling him—all cases with kids did—because it had been the reason they had descended into fighting so bitterly.

Ziva munched on a few more of the tortilla chips in front of them.

"What time is Howard's indictment?" the Israeli asked.

"Indictment's at two," Jenny said. "Could be any time after that I get an update. Maggie's taking care of it."

"Your friend from university?"

Jenny nodded.

"Political analyst. She specializes in managing campaigns, dealing with scandal—crooked senators."

"Ah," Ziva grinned. She tilted her head. "If he is indicted, then you must go to court, yes?"

Again, Jenny nodded, confirming Ziva's question. Ziva made a face, crinkling up her nose in distaste.

"How unpleasant," she said. It sounded light, but her eyes were dark and guarded, and Jenny knew that Ziva was more than aware of the inherent unpleasant nature of everything. She leaned forward on her arms, folding them neatly in front of her. "We are searching Howard's apartment when Agent Lee provides us with the warrant. Some time this afternoon."

"What are you looking for?" Jenny asked.

Ziva arched an eyebrow.

"Your panties," she answered.

Jenny closed her eyes and then raised them to the ceiling, scowling.

"Is it detrimental to the case if I hope you don't find them?" she asked sourly.

Ziva cocked her head.

"Finding them would obviously help," she said. "Why do you not want them found?"

"I know which ones I was wearing," Jenny muttered.

"Oh," Ziva answered hesitantly. She decided not to press the issue any more. Instead, she leaned back to make room for their entrees, and fell silent as the waitress checked on them. Jenny began to eat her pasta, falling into silence as well.

"How does he know you, Jenny?" Ziva asked out of the blue, sitting still, and looking at her friend.

"Pardon?" asked Jenny sharply.

"The bartender. He says he knows you. How is this?"

Jenny frowned. She twirled noodles pointedly around her fork and ate a few mouthfuls, chewing carefully. He had a generic name, so it had taken her a night of contemplating and looking through a box of old things to figure out if he was the kid she was thinking of—he was.

She hadn't recognized him at the bar. He was bulkier now, his face more chiseled, with more facial hair and a harder look. She hadn't known him for long, anyway. She did not see the point in getting into her adolescent past with Ziva.

She took a sip of her sweet tea stiffly.

"We attended school together."

"College?" asked Ziva.

"No," responded Jenny. "High School. I believe it was my sophomore year. I was about fifteen."

Ziva whistled.

"Such a long time ago," she remarked. "I do not understand his anger towards you."

Jenny did not answer.

"Shall we turn the discussion to your illicit love affair?" she asked curtly, suddenly sick of the topic.

"It is not a _love_ affair…"

* * *

><p>Gibbs pointed at DiNozzo.<p>

"You take McGee to the bar. Search everything _twice_ for any sign of that drug," he ordered. "Swab bottles, take pictures—find something."

"Yes boss," Tony answered, shooting a look at Ziva. He yanked up his backpack and sprang up, waiting impatiently for McGee.

"Now," Gibbs snapped, turning cool eyes on the geekier agent.

Tim jumped up, scrambling to obey faster than he had already been scrambling. Gibbs turned to Ziva.

"We're taking the apartment," he growled. "Meeting the lawyer there."

Ziva followed Gibbs to the garage, watching him get the keys and unlock one of the Government Issue sedans. Her brow furrowed she shot got into the car.

"We must meet the lawyer?"

Gibbs nodded curtly.

"She's babysitting us," he practically snarled, steering the car out of the garage in his usual controlled, forceful way. "Legal _rules_."

"We have to be supervised?" Ziva felt as if she was not getting the point.

"So we don't plant anything," Gibbs elaborated roughly. He didn't say much else, and Ziva realized he was not going to. She sat back and furrowed her brow. She fumed for the rest of the car ride, slamming her door when they arrived at Howard's apartment complex.

Gibbs led the way to Howard's floor. The sour-faced lawyer was waiting just outside of the designated apartment.

"Ms. Fernandez," greeted Gibbs coldly.

"Agent Gibbs," she answered just as icily. "I hope we can make this quick? I must get back to my client."

"He can wait," Gibbs answered carelessly, gesturing to the door. Fernandez pulled out Howard's key and let them in to the apartment, following behind them closely. "Ziva," Gibbs said, pointing towards the bedroom and bathroom.

She nodded and traipsed off in that direction, camera and gloves in hand. Gibbs remained silent, ignoring his unwelcome tail. He surveyed the apartment with a critical, observant eye. It was clearly the home of a bachelor, if the mess of unkempt plates, open food, and laundry on the floor was any indication.

"What exactly do you think you're going to find, Agent Gibbs?" Fernandez asked curtly.

"Evidence," Gibbs patronized.

"Evidence of a crime my client did not commit?"

Gibbs did not answer. He narrowed his eyes at a famed picture above Howard's computer desk and lifted his camera, snapping a picture.

"What do you think you have?" Fernandez asked quickly, scurrying up.

Gibbs just pointed.

It was a framed diploma certifying Benjamin Howard in pharmaceuticals.

The lawyer made a huffing noise, continuing to follow Gibbs around. In the kitchen, with the lawyer still obnoxiously close on his heels, he pulled open cabinets and looked around carefully, pushing aside jars of spice and half-closed bags of potato chips.

"Your director may be feeling triumphant after hearing of the indictment," Fernandez said primly. "But I would advise her to reign in her enthusiasm if I were you."

Gibbs turned around, staring Fernandez straight in the face. He glared at her, staying quiet; waiting for her to say whatever the hell she wanted to get off her chest. She stepped back a little, caught off guard by his intimidating proximity.

"You do not have a case against my client," she said, drawing herself up stoically. "What you have is a foolish woman with one-night-stand _guilt_."

Gibbs continued to glare wordlessly.

"Gibbs!" Ziva called, her voice muffled by the distance from kitchen-to-bedroom.

Narrowing his eyes briefly at the lawyer, Gibbs ignored her blustering and brushed past her, following Ziva's voice back into Howard's bedroom. Ziva was crouched by Howard's unmade, messy bed, holding up the top part of his mattress. Gritting her teeth, she pointed to what she had found.

Gibbs came closer and crouched down, snapping a picture in full view of the lawyer before he pulled out the yearbook Ziva was showing him and dropped it on the bed. It had been open under the mattress, a pair of women's underwear on one of the pages, as if it were pressed in the book like a flower.

With a gloved hand, Ziva lifted the panties and tilted her head at the yearbook. She indicated a picture in the corner with her finger.

The title of the page read _Students Tutoring_, and the picture showed a pair of teenagers at a circular table in a library, the boy with his head buried in a book while the girl watched.

"That is Jenny," Ziva said. Gibbs nodded. He had recognized her, even as terribly young as she looked in the picture. The eyes and slightly bored, instructive look were the same.

Gibbs held the place in the yearbook and flipped it closed, looking at the title.

_Fort Campbell High School. Clarksville, Tennessee—1988._

Gibbs frowned sharply. Estimating quickly, he figured Jen would have been maybe fifteen or sixteen. In a detached, surreal way, he remembered that Kelly had been a year old then. He assumed it was Howard with her in the picture, but he'd have to confirm. He showed the cover to Ziva and she nodded, pulling a bag out of her pocket for the panties.

As she shifted around, Gibbs noticed something written on the back of the thin green material and he leaned forward, snatching at the garment and lifting it up to examine it. He soon realized he had made a mistake.

Ziva cleared her throat, raising her eyebrows a little.

In coarse handwriting, '_Jethro'_ was written across the back of Jenny's stolen panties. Suddenly, quite a few flashes of memory darted before Gibbs' eyes; he remembered teasing arguments with Jen back in Paris.

_I don't belong to you, Jethro_—to which he'd responded by immaturely writing his name on the back of half her lingerie.

Releasing the panties without a word, Gibbs indicated that Ziva should continue bagging them up.

The lawyer made a bit of a snotty, victorious noise.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Agent Gibbs, but isn't your first name '_Jethro'_?"

* * *

><p>To say that some of her re-scheduled meetings with Congressman and lobbyists on Capitol Hill were awkward was an understatement. As professional and collected as she was, the news stories still seemed to hang in the air like rain clouds, and it was clear eggshells were being walked on around her.<p>

Her last stop of the day was the Secretary of the Navy's office, and this was by far the most irritating meeting she'd had. Jarvis was unctuous, high-strung, and generally concerned only with himself and what would make him either look better or have an easier life.

"Agent Peterson let me know that this Benjamin Howard has been indicted for his actions," Jarvis continued, shuffling through some files in front of him.

"He was," supplied Jenny. "Pending selection of a jury, a first trial date is to be determined."

Jarvis sighed heavily, looking up at her.

"You have someone handling the press?"

She nodded shortly.

"Is there any chance this is going to die down?"

"You know it will get worse first," she said bitterly. "I'm going to be painted as irresponsible, and the defense will no doubt attempt to say I'm just trying to cover up bad behavior."

"I hope you're not," growled SecNav under his breath.

Jenny chose delicately to ignore that incendiary comment. Jarvis grumbled a bit more and closed a few files, leaning back. He folded his hands in front of him.

"We'll handle the press the best we can," he muttered. "God knows I'm already catching flak from the Joint Chiefs and a few others for this scandal."

"I am sorry it's been so difficult for you," Jenny consoled icily.

He gave her a sharp look.

"Do not get testy with me, Director Shepard," he warned firmly. "You placed yourself in this position."

"I was attacked," Jenny said coldly.

"A fate that could have been prevented by a more responsible choice, I think."

"To point out a flaw or two in that thinking, I'll kindly remind you that whether I had one drink or twelve, a roofie would knock me out."

Jenny met his glare unflinchingly. Jarvis looked uncomfortable, and cleared his throat, nodding a little more meekly at her words. She didn't care what he said about her choices, or what he thought happened—what bothered her was his sole concern with himself in the situation. He looked at it as if it completely concerned _him_.

This was her problem. She was capable of handling it without SecNav trying to exert damage control under the guise of looking out for his own. She was eager for this interview to be over.

The past hour had been spent discussing new hiring and funding for her agency, but of course they had to finish with an update on this sordid topic. Jenny was tired, and she was stressed. She was looking forward to a workout to uncoil her muscles.

She had a statement set to be released in the morning, crafted mostly by Maggie, and laced with her own input. She wanted to sleep, but she couldn't. She had fuzzy dreams that upset her, but were just as blurry as her memory.

And she was sick of Jarvis.

"Alright," Jarvis sighed, business-like. "Is there anything in house we should discuss that might come out with this? Anything we might have to handle?"

His eyes bore into hers, and she thought of her affair with Jethro. She felt trapped—if she told Jarvis about that issue now, she had no idea what the repercussions might be. However, the repercussions were unpredictable if the affair happened to come out mid-trial. She swallowed hard, choosing an ambiguous answer.

"The press will no doubt focus on attacking my _personal_ choices and character," she said, smooth as a lying politician. "I do not think the agency has anything else invested."

* * *

><p>Gibbs stood on Jenny's doorstep for a moment deciding if he was going to walk in or knock. He decided to barge in, but discovered the door to be locked—and his key was at home. He knocked. He expected Noemi to answer.<p>

But Jenny did.

"That was fast," he remarked, lowering his hand.

She blew air out between her lips, sending a few wisps of hair flying around her forehead. She was dressed in gym shorts and a sports bra, hair pulled back, running shoes on, an iPod still clipped to a band around her shoulder. Her face was flushed red from the workout.

"I was about to go change," she said a little breathlessly.

"You go on a run?" Gibbs asked. She nodded, stepping aside to let him in. He slipped in and shut the door behind him, shooting her a look.

"Peterson went with me," she said. "Keeps up pretty well."

"Next time call me," Gibbs ordered.

She blew hair out of her face again. She smirked.

"When I call you to work out, we end up fucking."

He arched an eyebrow at her. Jenny laughed, turning towards the kitchen.

"Oh I see. That was a line."

He didn't answer, and followed her in. She picked up a water bottle and took a drink, clearly still trying to regulate her breathing. There were files on the table and files on the counter. There were empty coffee cups, and an open box of cereal. Gibbs tipped it back an examined it.

"The study over flow?" he quipped mildly.

Jenny opened the refrigerator and glanced at him with narrowed eyes. She ignored him.

"I don't have anything to eat," she announced, shutting the fridge. She leaned against the table. "Do you—

"Where's Noemi?"

Jenny frowned at him.

"She is visiting her mother in El Salvador. Do you want to order Chinese?"

He shrugged.

"S'up to you, Jen."

She grabbed her phone and slid it across the table to him, dropping down in a chair and propping her leg up to untie her shoe. Stiffly, Gibbs took her cell phone, his eyes narrowing. Across the table, when she lifted her leg and her shorts slipped up, he could see the healing scratch marks on the inside of her thighs.

"I want chow mein," she said matter-of-factly. She kicked off a shoe.

He flipped open the phone.

"You gonna ask why I'm here?"

She lifted her shoulders curtly and shook her head. She draped her arm over her knee and looked up at him intently for a minute.

"Asking your intentions never gets me anywhere."

* * *

><p>Jenny leaned over the table to place the beer she'd just cracked open in front of Jethro. He was treated to a close-up view of the muscles running up her sides. She leaned back and sat down, straddling her chair again, sticking to water herself.<p>

Gibbs nodded his thanks and took a swig, watching her handle her chopsticks expertly.

"Jen," he began. She looked at him through her lashes, pretty well aware of where he was going to go tonight with the conversation. He plowed on: "What's your history with Howard?"

Jenny snorted. She sighed and set her container down, stabbing her food with chopsticks.

"I don't know what sort of perceptions you have about me, Jethro," she said dully, "but the answer to _that_ question will ruin them."

He raised his eyebrows, suspicious, and intrigued.

She rubbed her forehead.

"It's more not about him than about him," she muttered. "But he'll make it an issue, I think."

"What're you tryin' to say, Jen?"

"I knew him in high school."

"I know," Gibbs said. "Saw the yearbook."

Jenny made a face. She leaned back, her shoulders slumping.

"When I was young, the army moved us a lot. I was never in one school long enough to make friends, and being the awkward new kid got old real fast," she explained in a clipped tone. "I read a lot of books and watched a lot of TV to entertain myself, and as I got older, I figured out how to establish myself in a school so people wouldn't mess with me."

"Hmm," Gibbs grunted, picking at his food. He lifted his eyebrows. "Mind control?"

"You could say that," she said balefully. "Sex," she corrected. "I was a slut in high school."

Gibbs stared at her, caught off guard. He froze, his chopsticks halfway between his mouth and his container of food.

She laughed at the look on his face.

"You think it's hard to believe?"

"Well, yeah," he answered after a minute. Jenny just didn't seem like the type. Back in the day, it had been a running joke amongst half the other men in the agency that she was descended from the iceberg that tanked Titanic she was so frigid.

"Me too," she said softly, her smile fading a little. "It isn't something I'm proud of. But I discovered that when I put out, the girls who _didn't_ became the ones who were insecure, instead of me. That was how I asserted myself. So I slept with the boys, handed out a few blow-jobs, and I always had to move before the ridicule started."

He was still staring at her, though he lowered his hand. He had never really known anything about Jenny's past pre-NCIS. He knew she'd been to college, and he thought graduate school—and he knew she had lived in Germany for a year when she was much younger. But this was all new to him.

He held out his hands.

"What's this got to do with Howard?" he asked shortly, his brow furrowing.

She pointed at him with the chopsticks.

"Jethro, I don't know. I can only tell you how I knew him—and I didn't know him well. Daddy and I were at Fort Campbell until the beginning of my senior year, longer than I'd been anywhere, so the gossip got pretty bad. I tutored Ben in Chemistry. He was a nice kid. He never harassed me or called me a whore, but he did ask me to Prom and I turned him down. I wanted a friend. I don't think he forgave me."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes.

"This guy raped you because you rejected him?"

"I don't know his motives," she snapped. "I didn't have time to ask."

Gibbs pushed his food away and took a drink of his beer, his eyes hard.

"You think he had a grudge?"

She picked at her noodles.

"I don't know."

He set his beer down, frustrated. He was sick of hearing that from her. She didn't know what happened, she didn't remember, she didn't know this, and she didn't know that. He knew she couldn't exactly help it, but it was annoying as hell.

Gibbs rubbed his hand over his mouth and then narrowed his eyes.

"That's why he was pissed when you sat down," he growled suddenly.

"What?" Jenny asked, pausing.

"The security video," Gibbs said. "You sit down, he greets you, you answer, and he's pissed the rest of the night."

Jenny moved her lips slowly, setting her chopsticks down.

"I didn't recognize him," she murmured. She made a face he couldn't decipher and put her head in her hands, shoulders slumping again. "He looks different," he heard her say defensively.

"That doesn't give him the right to touch you."

She looked at him through her fingers.

"I know that," she said quietly.

"You feel guilty!" Gibbs accused.

She glared at him.

"He thought I was a stuck-up bitch back _then_, who knows what he thought now!"

"Doesn't matter," Gibbs growled. "He doesn't have a _right_ to you."

Jenny stood up, kicking her chair away.

"I know _that_," she snapped. "_No_ _one_ has a right to me, Jethro, and that includes you. I dropped the slut act once my dad was permanently transferred to the Pentagon. I learned my lesson," she paused, tucking hair behind her ears. She bit her lip. "And you were only the second man since I graduated _high_ _school_."

Jenny stormed out of the kitchen.

Gibbs sat still, not quite sure when their conversation had turned into an argument. He felt that way a lot when he was involved with Jenny. He stood up slowly, itching to go after her, but aware he should give her a minute.

Her whole explanation just made him angrier and angrier with the bastard. He didn't really give a damn if Jenny was a _slut_ in high school, or whatever she wanted to call herself. He wouldn't ever think of her that disrespectfully, but he knew plenty of her peers at that age probably did.

He stood up and shoved his chair in, abandoning dinner. Scratching the back of his neck, he left the kitchen, unsure where he was going to find Jen or what kind of mood she was going to be in. He glared at the stairs for a minute, and then turned slightly to look towards the study—and that was when he realized she hadn't gone far at all.

She was leaning right outside the kitchen entrance, her hands cushioning her tailbone as she lounged against the wall. Her head was bent. He looked down at her bare feet and walked over.

"Jen," he said.

She gasped for breath, and he realized she was choking back tears.

"Dammit," he swore.

She thrust her head up and glared at him, glassy-eyed, angry that he was frustrated by her outbreak of emotion. She knew he hated handling crying women, but she did it so rarely she wished that just once he'd deal with it. He frowned; he hadn't meant to sound so rough and uncaring.

He moved closer and put his hands on her shoulders, pushing them back slowly, making her straighten up. He didn't have anything to say because he didn't know what she wanted to hear, and those rare times when he _did_ know what she wanted to hear, he never said _that_ either.

So he just glared at her until she lifted her head and then he kissed her. A few short, quick times first and then, when she didn't shove him away from her, he kissed her a little harder—with more substance.

She figured this turn of events meant they were just going to ignore the rocks their relationship had been on before Howard came into the picture and start right back up in the middle of their affair—so she clasped his neck in her hands and kissed back, rising up on tiptoes to access his lips better.

Jenny opened her mouth to him, letting him taste her. Her throat locked up—she was still trying to stop from crying—and she pushed him away a little gently, turning her head away to cough. She tilted her head back and wiped her eyes roughly, blinking at him.

She ducked under his arm and hooked her index finger through his belt loop.

"Come on," she muttered, indicating the stairs with her head.

He reached down and grabbed her hand, following her up those red-carpeted stairs he knew so well.

She left the door open and turned and pulled his shirt off and unbuckled his trousers.

"You don't want to be romantic about this, do you?" she muttered, arching an eyebrow.

He put his hands on her hips and pulled her against him, resuming the kiss from the foot of the stairs. Was she trying to suggest he was never romantic about '_this'_? He'd always thought he was pretty good at the not being selfish aspect of sex.

He slipped his thumbs under her waistband and pushed her gym shorts down her legs.

"Mmm," she whimpered, shivering in the cold. She put her arms around his neck and grabbed his hair, tilting her head back. He pulled it out of its ponytail and pushed her back towards the bed. She gripped his shoulders and shifted her weight, almost attempting to crawl up his body.

He grabbed her thighs and lifted her up, wincing slightly. He looked up at her, standing right at the foot of her bed, her legs wrapped tight around his waist.

"You need to be on top?" he asked.

She frowned. He hadn't asked if she wanted to be; he'd asked if she needed to be. She pursed her lips, thinking of something Ziva had told her once, after Cairo—something that Jethro was probably worried about. She unwrapped her legs and stood on her own briefly—then she dropped back on the bed and stretched out, beckoning to him. He crawled _next_ to her.

"I'm not traumatized," she said quietly. "I don't remember it."

He eyed her guardedly.

"I wasn't brutalized," she said, her voice catching. "It's only that I can't remember that makes me sick—that I know he was," she swallowed sourly, "he was inside me, and he did _whatever_ he wanted—no," she stopped sharply. "I'm going to turn you off," she said bitterly.

He snorted, leaning over her closely, lowering his mouth to her ear. He ran his hand down her body, from her neck to sternum to her navel, where he slid his fingers under her panties. Gibbs shook his head, his thoughts aggressive, possessive.

"No," he drawled. "That's not possible."

He had never encountered a situation in which Jenny had turned him off. Not when she was sick, not when she was drunk, hung over, angry, etc. Jenny was just alluring—he did want her, even if she had been 'marked'—as she'd put it so indelicately when she'd shouted that she hated him.

She flushed, biting her lip. Her breathing accelerated as he touched her and she turned towards him, seeking a firmer touch, a more interactive sexual experience. She arched her back and clutched a handful of her hair, letting a breath out slowly between her lips.

"I don't _need_ to be on top," she hissed, taking in deep breath. Gibbs pressed his thumb against her, bringing out a quick moan. "I like it on top."

"I know," he answered, smirking. He pushed a finger inside of her, snaking his arm under her and rolling onto his back; he pulled her on top of him, spreading his hands over her thighs and inching upwards, his eyes drifting up her body hungrily.

She covered one of his hands with hers, drawing it towards her sharply. His fingers were wet to the touch and she shivered, an ache creeping up her spine. She hated losing the control. She felt like everything had been beyond her control since she stood on his doorstep in the early hours of a disconcerted morning.

"What do you want, Jen?" he growled, his voice husky in the back of his throat. He pulled up his knees and she leaned against them, holding his hand just below her belly button.

"I don't want it any different," she said sharply. "I still want you to fight me," she provoked, pushing his hand down. He grabbed her knee and pulled her legs forward, propping her foot on his shoulder. "_Jethro_," she gasped.

He slid her panties down her legs and looked at them briefly, tossing them off the side of her bed.

She lifted her head, her eyes dazed. She parted her lips, splayed on his chest and over his hips.

"What—are you-?" she broke off, her breathing shallow. She sounded hopeful.

"I didn't finish dinner, Jen," he quipped, seductive, wrapping his hand firmly around her ankle.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Lieutenant Daniel Kaffee is Tom Cruise's JAG character from 'A Few Good Men'. He's a wonderful attorney. And he can handle the truth. ;)_

* * *

><p><strong>7<strong>

His breathing was a little more than labored as he tried to focus on the things that were going on around him.

"Ziva," he groaned between his teeth, blinking rapidly to clear his head. He thrust his hand out when he heard the phone ringing, trying to stop her from answering, but it caused him to lose his balance and he sort of—fell on her, nearly knocking her breath out.

"Don't answer that—" he ground out, gripping her hair desperately.

"Shhh," she gasped, flicking open the phone. "David," she said, clearly and professionally, as if she wasn't in the middle of early morning sex with her partner. She sucked in her breath quietly.

Tony gave her an annoyed look and slumped down, resting his forehead on the pillow behind her shoulders. He heard Gibbs' voice, muffled, through the receiver, and he knew this was over—there was no way he was picking up where they had stopped after hearing _Gibbs'_ _voice_ in bed with them.

Ziva hung up her phone.

She gently hit him in the back of the head with it.

"Hey," snapped Tony, frowning. "What's that all about?"

"From Gibbs," she said wryly.

DiNozzo made a horrified face.

"That is sick, Zee," he said, shaking his head. He rolled off of her, curling up in the fetal position.

She leaned up, bending over him. She rested her chin on his bicep, smirking a little.

"I do not understand what you mean," she said with a shrug.

"You—you brought Gibbs into morning sex…you can't do that! We can't have morning sex any more. It's contaminated."

"You say that now," she said, rolling her eyes. She slipped out of bed, walking stark naked across the room to her closet. He sat up and admired the view, his mouth open slightly. She bent over, picking up a pair of shoes.

He winced. Maybe he could pick up where they left off.

"Can we finish?" he whined.

"I already did," she answered smartly. She threw a pair of pants at him from 'his' pile in her closet. "Get dressed. We are picking up one of the Skarics. Abby got a match."

Tony kicked his legs like an irritated child and threw himself face down on the bed, grumbling in annoyance. He cursed the day Gibbs was born.

And then he took it back, because he was scared Gibbs might hear about it.

* * *

><p>The Director was trying to carry on a normal conversation—something that was distinctly difficult to do whilst she was on the way to a highly publicized trial with three protective agents, a prosecutor, and a barracuda campaign manager who was also her best friend.<p>

"Maggie," she growled one more time, covering the mouthpiece of her cell phone and shooting M. Allison Hart an annoyed look.

Allison raised her hands defensively and rolled her eyes, falling silent—finally.

"You have him in custody?" Jenny asked again.

Gibbs answered affirmatively.

"Which one?"

"Father," Gibbs grunted. "Pavao Skaric."

"Case closed?"

"It's about to be," Gibbs snarled.

"What do you mean, about to be?"

"I'm about to get a confession," he answered sharply.

Jenny panicked a little. She knew this case had been eating Jethro alive, and with the murky levels of evidence involved in it, he needed a straightforward confession. She feared what he might do to get it.

"Jethro," she began. "Agent Gibbs," she corrected, when everyone in the car glanced at her with some variance of raised eyebrows or a head cocked in interest. "You are to execute the interrogation _by the book_. Is that understood?"

"When do I not go by the book?" he asked sardonically.

"By the book, Gibbs!" she snapped again. "In light of the scrutiny the agency is already under, it's best some rogue agent not give the media another reason to criticize it."

She referred to the maelstrom that had been building around the opening of this trial—it was as if nothing else was happening in the world, as if the media had nothing else to focus on save the sexual assault scandal the first female director of an armed agency had managed to get herself involved in.

Even SecNav, in all of his apprehension and anxiety, had not thought it to be as bad as it was until the dedication of the Pentagon Memorial to the September Eleventh terrorist attacks—at which a tactless and disrespectful reporter had focused only on Jenny's case, bombarding her with questions over her alleged false accusation of Howard, and what she was going to say come trial date.

That had been a week ago; the prosecution opened today.

"Yeah, Jen, I got it," he said, annoyed. He sounded tense. "Read 'im his rights already."

She sighed in frustration. She would murder Jethro if he screwed this up.

"Is Sciuto dressed for court?" Jenny asked warily.

"Ziva dressed her. McGee is dragging her out of her lab. Relax."

Jenny gave a short, ironic bark of laughter.

"Will you get off the phone?" hissed Allison. "You want to prep before we face the press."

Jenny shook her off again.

She parted her lips, mulling over all of the professional, director-ish things she should or could say. Except she couldn't think of anything. She wanted to talk to Jethro, but in this car full of employees and legal advisors, she had to talk to Agent Gibbs.

"Jenny?" he asked.

"Was there something else you needed, Agent Gibbs?"

He seemed to understand what she was saying.

"Call if you need somethin'," he said seriously. Then he hung up, and she quickly hung up as well, slipping her blackberry into its cozy pocket inside of her purse.

Quick as a flash, Allison had her pen in her hand again, snatched from behind her ear. She scratched some things on a legal pad in front of her and then looked around, frowning slightly. The car was slowing to a stop. One of the agents in front unbuckled his seat belt, as well as the one in the back. He slipped past the lawyer.

"Director, don't move until I open the door and give the word," he said politely.

"I know the drill, Agent Stephen," she answered shortly.

He nodded at her.

"Peterson?" he asked, as Peterson turned off the car and glanced around, sunglasses secured firmly over his eyes.

"Go ahead," Peterson said.

The three agents got out of the car and Jenny leaned forward, checking her make-up in the mirror briefly. Agent Stephen opened the car door. As planned, Allison got out first, followed by the lawyer.

"Director," murmured Peterson, offering her his hand.

She took it, and stepped out of the black Escalade, glad her own eyes were hidden by sunglasses.

Her security, Peterson slightly ahead and the third walking directly behind her, flanked her on either side. It was sunny outside, and she barely had a moment to register the crowd outside of the courthouse before the bray started:

"DIRECTOR!"

"DIRECTOR SHEPARD!"

"DIRECTOR—"

* * *

><p>The door of the NCIS interrogation room made hideous commotion as Agent Gibbs thrust it open and it collided with the wall behind it. Abused for no reason, the heavy door bounced weakly back, left wide open to reveal a psychologically broken murder suspect on the inside, a suspect left to be officially processed by Anthony DiNozzo.<p>

Gibbs stormed away from the room he'd been in for three hours trying to force a confession from that bastard Pavao Skaric, a bottom-feeding low-life whose sick obsession with little girls had provoked him to turn his daughter into a prematurely sexual beauty queen. Every muscle in Gibbs' body ached with the restraint it had taken to refrain from throttling the dirt bag.

True to his word—as always—he had gone by Jen's damn _book;_ everything was legit and legal—the Skaric case was closed. It should have been closed weeks ago—before it had gotten to the gruesome point where the little girl ended up dead and he had wrapped himself in it so tightly that Jenny had gone running.

He blamed Pavao Skaric for the murder of his innocent daughter and he blamed Pavao Skaric as much as Benjamin Howard for raping Jenny.

Gibbs was angry. He was just _angry_.

It was near lunchtime. He stormed right into the bullpen, and there the TVs were all on ZNN, and Abby was huddled in his chair, arms folded, looking forlorn in a neat, appropriate court suit. Her purse was on Gibbs' desk. Ziva stood with car keys, eyeing Abby with a slight irritation.

"We must go, Abby," she said quietly.

"Look at all of the cameras," Abby whined. "All of these people are going to see me!" She complained, looking at her average, non-Goth attire in dismay and despair. Ziva did not seem remotely touched by her predicament.

Gibbs looked at the television.

"…_aloof and unapproachable as ever, NCIS's Director ignored most questions from reporters as she walked to the courthouse, heavily guarded…trial is to resume within the hour, as soon as the judge returns from…"_

With the fragmented reporting Gibbs was hearing, the news played and replayed footage of Jenny walking past a sea of reporters into the courthouse, her head held high over the crowds. He could see her lawyer and Agent Peterson on either side of her, and ahead of her that obnoxious brunette she insisted on being friends with-Hart placated reporters with a shit-eating grin on her pretty face.

"Gibbs!" Abby wailed upon seeing him. "I look ridiculous."

"Abs. Go," he said, pointing at Ziva.

She blanched, scrambling up. His tone surprised her, and she grabbed her things, scuttling to get out of his way. He regretted the snap, but he couldn't help it; she was supposed to be in court with Jenny at two, and a lot of the case depended on her.

McGee looked up nervously, surprised, too, by the anger in Gibbs' tone. Gibbs was usually less pissed when they wrapped up grueling cases.

"Everything okay, Boss?" he asked tensely, ever the concerned, caring, 'good guy'.

Of course, Gibbs did not answer. He looked at Abby, trying to convey that he was sorry for being so short without having to actually say the words.

"You look fine, Abs," he growled finally, walking past her to his desk. He grabbed his gun and his badge and put them on.

McGee half stood.

"Are we going somewhere?"

"Not you," Gibbs said curtly. "You and Tony close the Skaric case." Gibbs picked up his cell phone and walked up to Ziva, gesturing for the keys. "You too. I'll take her," he said, jerking his thumb at Abby.

He didn't expect a protest, thus he was surprised when Ziva recoiled, holding the keys against her shoulder protectively.

"I am taking Abby," she said firmly. "I wish to see the trial," she added forcefully, her jaw set.

Gibbs glared at her. He couldn't tell her no—he knew why Ziva wanted to see the trial; Ziva had her own demons to battle, and if battling them for Jenny helped her, then so be it. Still—he wasn't going to give in all the way.

He took her hand in a gentle-but-rough way and snatched the keys.

"I'm driving," he said gruffly, storming back out of the bullpen.

He wasn't supposed to be at the trial; he had told Jenny he wouldn't go. She should have known that wouldn't last; he needed to see it. He wanted to see the arrest his team had made turn into a conviction and an incarceration or he was going to take care of Howard himself.

* * *

><p>Because Gibbs drove like a bat out of hell, the court was still in recess when the trio arrived.<p>

The judge had to call a break for lunch and to attend to a personal issue—and a time to reconvene was pending her return. Gibbs escorted Abby into the courthouse, keeping an eye out for any funny business.

"Miss Sciuto," a clear, familiar voice rang out—not the voice of Jenny's district-appointed prosecutor, but of Jenny's annoying friend. M. Allison Hart was sashaying towards them, reaching out for Abby. "You look nice," she complimented.

"Are you mocking me?" Abby asked, glaring at the other woman.

Gibbs snorted.

"No," Hart said, looking confused. "Not at all."

"Hmpf," snorted Abby, unconvinced. "I'm ready to do my civic duty," she said, gesturing at her unusual outfit.

Hart nodded.

"Kaffee wants to talk to you again before we put you on," she said quickly. "Then I need to prep you for the post-trial press. We've got time; Jen has to finish her testimony first."

It irked Gibbs that Hart called Jenny 'Jen' as well. As far as he had ever known, he was the only one who'd ever had that privilege. Because the thought annoyed him, he began glaring at Hart. No harm meant; it was simply a reflex. She noticed. And she smirked.

"Hello, Mr. Gibbs," she greeted smarmily.

"Oh, you shouldn't call him that," Abby piped up seriously. She cocked her head in interest. "Gibbs will head-slap you."

"That sounds incredibly like harassment," Hart responded casually. "Don't worry for me, Abby, I have immunity," she said smartly, tilting her head at Jenny. Gibbs followed the unctuous head-tilt.

Jenny stood by a bench off to the side, coffee in hand. She had her arms crossed, and appeared to be carrying on a conversation with one of her agents. The lawyer that SecNav had assigned her, an up-and-coming JAG prosecutor by the name of Daniel Kaffee, stood nearby, talking on his phone rapidly.

"Abby," coaxed Hart. She jerked her head towards Kaffee. Abby frowned and waved forlornly at Gibbs, allowing herself to be dragged away by the icy brunette. Gibbs took a slightly different direction, heading towards Jenny.

"It is not going well," he heard Jenny hiss as he approached. "That woman is a sanctimonious bitch and she's got something up her sleeve, I can see it in her eyes—" she finished her sentence but seemed to trail off at the same time; she had caught sight of him.

"Agent Gibbs," Peterson greeted cordially, giving him a nod.

"Excuse me," said Jenny carefully, stepping around her agents.

"Ma'am," warned Agent Stephens, starting forward. Agent Boone, the one who was sitting—whom she'd been speaking to—sat forward, her stance tense. Jenny froze, lifting her eyebrows in warning at them.

"Are any of you legitimately under the impression that Agent Gibbs is going to do me bodily harm?" she asked icily.

Boone hesitated. She and Stephen both looked to Peterson; no one said a word.

"Let me try this again," said Jenny slowly. "Excuse me," she continued pointedly, moving past Stephen and Boone. Boone looked as if she would leap out of her seat to restrain the director.

"Let her go," allowed Peterson simply, shrugging his shoulders. He gave a nod of understanding to Gibbs. Generally, Jenny was not surrounded by three to four security agents—that had only started recently. Peterson was familiar with the way Gibbs and Jenny worked, and he trusted agent Gibbs.

As long as the director was in sight, there was no threat.

Jenny walked with Gibbs to an area that was secluded, yet not secluded. It couldn't look as if she were having any sort of secret conversations with anyone not involved in the case. She stood away off from her agents and from her lawyer, holding her coffee delicately.

"You are so bad at following orders, Jethro. You want to tell me how the hell you succeeded in the Corp?" she asked prissily.

"You don't give me orders," he scoffed.

"Watch how you talk to me," she retorted shortly. Technically speaking, she hadn't ordered him to stay away from the trial. But they both knew it was best. She probably should have declined to talk to him.

She stood in front of him, and she had a bad feeling. She was on edge—Gibbs had told her that Howard's lawyer knew the name 'Jethro' was written on Jenny's panties. Any other time, Jenny might find such a throwback to Paris hysterical—but not now. She was warily anticipating Fernandez's bringing it up.

It could destroy her.

Those panties seemed to hang in the air over her head during the whole trial. She was itching to get her testimony over with.

"How's it going?" he asked neutrally.

"Peachy," she responded, sipping the coffee. "You know what bear-baiting is?"

He nodded slowly.

"It's like that."

"Who's the bear?"

"I am."

Gibbs tilted his head, lifting his shoulders slightly.

"You can take the dogs," he said mildly.

She smirked at him.

"Look at us, having a metaphorical conversation. We're so cute," she mocked, rolling her eyes.

She glanced over at Kaffee and Hart.

"Maggie's a lion with the press," she muttered.

Gibbs opened his mouth petulantly, and Jenny reached up and covered his lips out of habit.

"Shush," she said, rolling her eyes. "You hardly know her."

He scowled, reaching up to remove her hand. He ran his fingers over the back of her hand and her palm briefly, before she tactfully slipped her hand away and wrapped both hands around her coffee cup. She licked her lips and looked around again, this time eyeing her agents. She seemed very self-absorbed at the moment.

Gibbs caught sight of a news camera and narrowed his eyes.

"Is the trial televised?" he growled, insulted.

"Some of it," Jenny muttered.

A few camera bulbs flashed and Jenny snapped her head to the left, watching Howard walk back in, escorted by half of the press and his harsh-eyed lawyer. He appeared to be talking to them all animatedly. Jenny said nothing. She just narrowed her eyes and gave Gibbs a nauseated smile.

"He's a rock star," she remarked bitterly.

Gibbs frowned. He reached out with the hand not visible to the press who had walked in with Howard, and touched her hip, squeezing tightly. She glanced down and gave him a look of warning, but she did not push him away.

"Jenny," across the courthouse, loud enough for her to hear, Kaffee called her name and beckoned her over. He stood with Abby. Of course, she was not the only one who looked over—Kaffee drew attention to her one-on-one with Gibbs.

Jenny winced. She turned to Gibbs and gave him an intent look for a moment.

"You need to go," she said.

He gave her a distasteful look. He wanted to sit in the back of the courtroom. He wanted to be there. She shrugged, knowing his thoughts. It didn't matter. She'd like to be able to look in the back and see him staring back at her, but that was folly, and she refused to do that to herself and to him.

"Go," she snapped, slipping away. He jingled the keys in his pocket and turned, giving a short nod to Ziva. Ziva nodded back, understanding, and made her way over to Jenny and the others.

Gibbs ducked out—he thought he had gone relatively unnoticed.

He was wrong.

* * *

><p>Ziva David took a seat in the courtroom, somewhere near the back—where a new addition went unnoticed—yet in full view of Jenny, so her friend could see her for sure. Ziva was mad that she had not been able to be here the whole time, but closing the Skaric case had been important, too—and Jenny understood.<p>

There was hushed murmuring in the room as observers, press, and jurors waited for the trial to resume. Jenny's lawyers were talking in undertones, getting things together, and Jenny sat quite impressively in the front row, her back and shoulders straight as any well-trained, Ivy-League graduate.

Ziva smirked, proud of her friend. She had always admired Jenny's ability to deal with the press so silkily. Ziva herself, composed as she may be, shut down in high-stress media situations, and tended to attack.

With the bang of a gavel, the trial resumed and the court stood as the judge took her hallowed place at the stand.

"Mr. Kaffee," she said in a clipped tone, "please resume with your witness and line of questioning."

Lt. Daniel Kaffee stood and gallantly allowed Jenny to walk back to the witness stand in front of him. She took her seat, her eyes as steely and stiff as the dark violet oxford she was wearing, and nodded once to Kaffee, apparently signaling that she was ready.

"Can I refresh the jury?" Kaffee asked, somewhat rhetorically. The judge nodded curtly. Kaffee turned to the jury; a group of people hand-selected and agreed upon by both lawyers, and began to speak solemnly.

"Until our recess, you had heard the Director of NCIS, Jenny Shepard, recount the events of her night—her trip to a local bar, the Federalist, her drinks, and the manner in which she had slipped away from her security detail—Jenny," he said, turning back to the Director smoothly. "When did you next become conscious of your surroundings?"

Jenny pursed her lips.

"I came to in my car," she said neutrally.

Kaffee raised his eyebrows, a worried look crossing his face.

"Your car?" he asked, concerned. "Had you driven home?"

"No," Jenny answered slowly. "I was in the parking garage. I woke up in the backseat," she explained.

Ziva narrowed her eyes, glancing venomously at Howard.

The man just scowled moodily at Jenny.

"You woke up in the backseat of your car," repeated Kaffee carefully, as if trying to piece things together. His brows furrowed perfectly. "Had you been sleeping, Jenny?" he asked.

She snorted a little.

"I woke up disoriented and in pain," she answered shortly. "I believe I was unconscious."

Kaffee nodded. He came a little closer to her, and shot a look at Howard for effect.

"What happened once you woke up?" he prompted.

"I took a moment to catch my bearings," she said confidently. "I sat up from the position I was in and looked around. I tried to remember what had happened, and I searched my belongings to see if anything was missing."

"Was anything missing?" Kaffee asked.

Jenny narrowed her eyes. She remained silent for a moment, her face showing reluctance, and then she nodded slowly, looking away from Kaffee.

She looked directly at Ziva.

"My panties were missing," she said, more quietly.

Kaffee looked appropriately upset by the admission. He turned to the tables behind him and picked up a clear plastic evidence bag, one Ziva recognized from the time she and Gibbs had searched Howard's apartment.

Faintly, Ziva could see the black letters scrawled on the cotton panties, but from her vantage point they were unreadable.

"Do you recognize these, Jenny?" he asked curiously.

"They're mine," she answered tilting her chin up a little.

"Objection," piped up Fernandez, standing and thrusting a hand at Jenny roughly. "The witness barely even looked at exhibit A," she snapped.

Kaffee turned to the judge.

"I hardly think she would be a reliable witness if she had to study her own undergarments before claiming them," he retorted smartly.

The judge considered Fernandez a moment, and then shook her head.

"I'm afraid I agree with Lt. Kaffee, Ms. Fernandez," she said coolly. "Continue with the line of questioning."

Kaffee turned and showed the panties to the jury.

"These panties, belonging to Director Shepard, were found in the apartment of the defendant," he said coldly. "They were pressed in the pages of an old yearbook," he said, passing the panties to the jury as he snatched up the next exhibit from his table, "This yearbook, to be exact," he pointed to the page, "a yearbook in which the Director is featured."

Letting the news sink in, Kaffee handed off the yearbook, too, to the jury, and turned back to Jenny.

"After discovering your panties were missing, what was your next course of action?" he asked.

Jenny held her head up, breathing out slowly.

"I let myself wake up a minute," she explained, "to be certain I was okay to drive. I left the parking garage and, as I continued to have no memory of the night before, I contacted an NCIS agent and had a case file opened."

"You checked in to a hospital?"

"Bethesda," she agreed. "I had a rape kit done."

"And then?" prompted Kaffee.

"And then I went to work," Jenny answered dully.

"You returned to work after such an ordeal?" Kaffee lifted his eyebrows, laying on the admiration—making Jenny sound heroic.

"I had a job to do," was all Jenny answered.

Kaffee gave the jury a pointed look.

Ziva smirked, lifting an eyebrow at Jenny. The redhead, unable to make any sort of motion back, attempted to convey her thanks to Ziva with just her green eyes. Ziva smiled. It made her happy to see Jenny having her day in court.

A day Ziva would never have. Ziva had to cling to Jenny's justice.

"Only a few more questions, Jenny," Kaffee continued. "How is it you know the defendant?"

Jenny bit her lip for a moment.

"I attended Fort Campbell High School with him briefly," she said.

"I see. And do you have any reason to believe you deserved the act of rape he perpetrated on you that night?"

Jenny's eyes snapped incredulously on the lawyer. It was clear she had not expected him to ask such a thing.

"In what situation does a woman—does _anyone_ deserve to be _raped_, Lieutenant?" she asked intensely.

Ziva smiled.

It had been a rather cruel question, but Ziva could see the problem—Jenny had been too aloof for the questioning, and Kaffee needed some emotion to warm the jury up. He achieved it—a few women on the panel murmured in agreement.

"I have no further questions, your honor."

* * *

><p>"Then it is a good thing I have a few, or this would be quite the uninteresting case."<p>

Louise Fernandez stood as she spoke, smiling in a sickly-sweet, hawkish sort of way. Howard's defense lawyer—and a well-known barracuda when it came to harassment cases, she was a formidable opponent—and it was said she had been chosen because she was female, and she usually took cases involving abused females, therefore her defending Howard would make Jenny look incredibly bad.

Jenny smiled coldly at the woman, remaining silent and composed.

"Director, how many drinks did you say you had at The Federalist?" Fernandez asked, batting her eyelashes sweetly.

Jenny glared at her.

"I didn't," she said curtly.

"Ah, well, do you mind telling us, please? It might put into perspective your judgment," Fernandez continued, crossing her arms.

Jenny hesitated.

"I had a few," she said neutrally.

"Don't be difficult, now, Director, we'll all adults here. How many is a 'few'?Quite a few? Or just a little more than a _few_?"

"I had _quite_ a few," Jenny answered. "I do not know the exact amount."

"Oh, my," Fernandez clicked her tongue, covering her lips. She shot a look at the jury and sighed, shrugging her shoulders. "I'd say not being able to remember is quite a lot. Director, at what point did you start feeling a little, ah, _woozy_?"

"It didn't happen in that manner," Jenny said. "It's very sudden. I was drinking, I was aware of my surroundings, and then it's nothing—I woke up in my car, and I have no memory."

"And so you say you were raped."

"I _was_ raped," Jenny said sharply.

Fernandez smirked.

"And so you say you were raped," she repeated. "But it sounds to me, Director, like you are simply struggling with a feeling of regret."

Jenny's eyes flashed. She remained silent, seeing no point in responding to the provocative statement until Fernandez went a little further. And oh, the lawyer did.

"Yes, indeed, Director, it does seem that you had reason to hide the fact that you had slept with a stranger after a drunken night at a bar," Fernandez said sweetly. "Your job, perhaps. A jealous lover, even."

"Perhaps," Jenny responded icily. "Perhaps your assessment would make sense if I had consented to Mr. Howard—which I did not. Nor do I even remember being offered the chance."

"Convenient," Fernandez said silkily. "It is so easy to be female, isn't it? When only the _accusation_ of rape can ruin an unwanted companion's credibility."

Jenny glared, her jaw set tightly. Smiling, Fernandez turned to the jury, and retrieved the evidence bag with Jenny's panties. She held onto them carefully, pacing around a bit as if thinking.

"Let me re-cap," she said, imitating Kaffee, "You went to a bar. You ditched security that was for your protection. You became drunk to the point of blacking out. And then suddenly, the bartender is accused of rape. Am I correct?"

"I blacked out because I was drugged," Jenny said icily.

Fernandez, appearing distracted, just nodded.

"You identified these as your undergarments?" she asked casually.

"I did."

"These are your panties?"

"Yes," Jenny answered through gritted teeth.

"These panties are—"

"Your honor!" interrupted Kaffee, annoyed. "I think we've established that the panties belong to the witness."

"Move along, Ms. Fernandez," growled the judge.

Fernandez nodded sweetly. Everything she did was _sweet_.

She whipped the evidence bag around.

"Read this aloud to the jury, Director," she said, pointing a manicured nail to the black name scrawled across the back of the panties.

Jenny pursed her lips.

Then, just a little bit sassily, she said clearly:

"Jethro."

"Jethro," repeated Fernandez, sounding interested. "And who is this _Jethro_, Director, that he is important enough to write his name on your panties?"

"Objection," broke in Kaffee furiously. "Relevance?"

"I believe you know the relevance, Kaffee," retorted Fernandez. "Your honor, I have a point."

"_Make_ it, Ms. Fernandez," the judge nodded to Jenny. "Answer the question please, Director Shepard."

Jenny turned to the lawyer coolly.

"He is a former lover," she said neutrally, her features blank.

"Ah," sighed Fernandez. "How romantic," she cooed sarcastically. "Former?" she asked, tilting her head. "Forgive me, Director, but I can hardly believe that. What woman wears panties with the name of a _former_ lover on them?"

"I do," Jenny said sarcastically. She gestured. "As you can see."

"I'm afraid I see much more than that, Director," Fernandez said, shaking her head solemnly. "Director, what is the name of the agent in charge of your case?"

Jenny gave a very tight look to the back of the room, seeking Ziva's dark eyes. She looked at her Israeli friend stoically.

"Agent Gibbs," she answered guardedly.

"Do you mind telling us Agent Gibbs' full name?"

Again, Jenny took a moment.

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs," she said.

A murmur erupted in the courtroom.

Feigning surprise, Fernandez lifted her brows and looked at the panties again, and the name scrawled on them.

"Jethro?" she asked, enunciating the name carefully. "Your lead agent has the same name as your former lover?"

"Funny coincidence," Jenny drawled.

"Oh I don't think so. _Jethro_ can't be a very common name. And it has come to my attention that Agent Gibbs is not only your employee, but was your training partner when you first joined NCIS."

"Your honor," snarled Kaffee, leaping up again. The roar in the courtroom was getting louder, and press cameras were starting to flash. "I cannot see how the witness's personal life is relev—"

"I can, Your Honor," Fernandez said loudly, breaking in over Kaffee. "I can see how the Director, unwilling to face a boyfriend she worked with after sleeping with another man, would invent a story of rape that Agent Gibbs, incited to anger, would place a mistake of hers in jail for."

"Order," snapped the judge, annoyed by the babbling that had broken out among the mass.

Fernandez was holding up the panties triumphantly. The jury was looking around with raised brows, Kaffee was standing—annoyed, and Howard was smirking, sitting up in his chair.

Jenny sat in the stand among the bray, looking cold, resigned from the mess. She was thinking of SecNav, and what a fit he was going to have. She had been focusing on Ziva, but she looked now at Fernandez, raising her voice a little as another gavel-smack from the judge brought a little more composure to the room.

"And if I was wearing panties marked with someone's name," she said coldly, "why do you think it is plausible that I went out and voluntarily slept with another man?"

The one-liner was good, and it saved her a little—but the scandal had already broken.

* * *

><p>It was McGee who noticed what was going on first. He had glanced up at the coverage of the Director's case again—because he was bored, and as good an agent as he was, writing up case reports was still boring.<p>

He glanced up, expecting to see the same thing, and was drawn in by red flashing bars on the screen, signaling breaking news.

"Uh, hey, Boss?" he said nervously, fumbling for the remote.

"What, McGee?" snapped Gibbs, not looking up.

"The news—uh, something, uh—happened," he turned up the volume, and Gibbs turned around, looking blankly at the screen.

"…_if the case concerning NCIS Director Jennifer Shepard can get anymore complicated, it has now been implied that the Director has been having an affair with one of her employees, and that said affair is why she accused Benjamin Howard of rape…it is being claimed that the Director did not want her significant other to discover her indiscretion…Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, in charge of Major Crimes…"_

Gibbs blinked, unable to comprehend for a moment. He narrowed his eyes. The station was looping courtroom footage; in some shots he could see Jen's lips moving, and in some she was sitting coldly while the defense attorney paced.

DiNozzo squeaked uncomfortably, standing up.

"Where're you goin', DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked curtly, turning back to his desk.

"Uh, do we need to arrest someone?" he asked dumbly.

"Sit down," Gibbs snapped. "Finish your report," he ordered.

He sat back at his work for a moment, diligently continuing as he had been before. Working tirelessly to officially close the Skaric case and pass it off to the courts. But he found he couldn't _really_ focus. He was thinking of what this meant for Jenny. She had enough to deal with. The SecNav was already up her ass about this thing, and entirely uncaring about how detrimental it was for her as well.

He stood up violently.

DiNozzo half leapt up. Again.

Gibbs glared at him as if he had lost his mind.

"Boss?" asked McGee.

Gibbs just stormed out without a word.

"Where's he going?" squawked Tony helplessly.

McGee lifted his shoulders in uncertainty.

And both agents turned back to the news, fixated.

* * *

><p>M. Allison Hart threw her hand out in anger.<p>

"No," she snapped forcefully. "Keep the press away. No one has any business talking to the Director," she barked, sending a young aid of hers flying down the hall to block the entrance to the room they were holed up in.

Kaffee had demanded a recess (again), and once Fernandez had finished her line of questioning, it had been granted. Up next today was Abby Sciuto, and then there were three days between the prosecution and the defense.

Jenny stood facing the wall, her arms crossed tightly.

Hart slammed a door and stormed around to Jenny, opening a cell phone. Kaffee rubbed his face, and kicked the leg of a table.

"God dammit," he swore. "How dare she? That unprofessional bitch."

"It wasn't unprofessional," Hart said, covering the mouth piece of her phone. "It was good, Kaffee, and you know it. You and I both would have pulled the stunt if we were in her place."

Kaffee swore again.

"Director, your case is shot," he said.

"No it isn't," Hart said.

Peterson slipped into the room, looking solemn. He allowed Abby Sciuto in with him, shutting and locking the door. She looked upset. She sat down and crossed her arms. Jenny turned and looked at her, walking quietly across the room. She sat down next to the Goth. The women sat in silence.

Hart growled and closed her phone, tucking it away.

"The media lines are busy," she said. "I can't get through to my friend at MSNBC."

"What the hell is MSNBC gonna do?" laughed Kaffee. "Call Fox, there's enough busty women on that channel to be on the Director's side—"

"I am not calling Fox, they only appeal to half the country!" Hart snapped back.

"ZNN and their ilk have been vilifying the Director already!"

Hart and Kaffee snapped back at each other while Abby watched. After a moment, she turned slightly, looking at Jenny.

"Director, are you okay?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes, Abby."

"Are you lying?" Abby asked hesitantly.

"Yes, Abby," Jenny answered in the same tone.

Abby frowned unhappily. She wrapped her arms around her knees and hunched forward.

"I hate court," she said.

Jenny's lip turned up a little at the corner.

Kaffee and Hart stopped bickering and seemed to have agreed. Hart whirled to Jenny, a few strands of dark hair framing her face—having fallen from her neat bun.

"It's going to be the same as when we started, Jen," she said apologetically. "We have to wait and see it play out. Then I act."

Jenny nodded curtly.

"You need to be at the trial. Every minute, every second—every day," Hart said meaningfully. "Otherwise, it's going to look as if you've run off hiding, and Howard looks strong. You have got to be sitting there, looking as—"

"Yes," Jenny said curtly. "Yes, I understand, Allison."

Hart clamped her mouth shut. Kaffee collapsed in a chair. He seemed to notice Abby, and leapt back up. He pointed at her a little crazily.

"Are you ready to testify?" he asked.

Surprised, Abby sat up straight and nodded vigorously.

"You're sure? You can withstand being badgered?"

Abby looked offended.

"Of course," she retorted. "I work with an assassin, a marine sniper, and a nerd. You think lawyers scare me?"

Jenny smirked, arching an eyebrow.

And Kaffee, looking surprised for a moment, laughed.

* * *

><p>Abby Sciuto smiled widely when she caught sight of Ziva sitting quietly in the back corner of the courtroom. Abby had returned to her usual peppy, endearing self, ready to seduce the jury with chipper, friendly smiles and her bubbly, sunny attitude.<p>

They were eating it up.

"Once you had the DNA sample from the defendant, what did you do?"

"I ran the tests," Abby answered Kaffee enthusiastically. "I started the diagnostics to see if the DNA swabbed from Howard matched the DNA in the semen, saliva, and skin particles found either on the Director or on her personal items."

"And you found-?"

"Howard's DNA matched the semen left on the Director's skirt, the upholstery of her SUV, and on the swab taken in the rape kit," Abby explained confidently. "It also matched skin found underneath the Director's fingernails, and saliva on the collar of the Director's ripped shirt."

Kaffee had Abby point to the charts he had set up, showing matched DNA. On the same charts, he showed the back of Jenny's car seats with luminol lighting up offensive spots, as well as her skirt, and the collar of her shirt.

He let the jury watch Abby as she explained what the lines and dots meant in quite a layman's sort of way—simple, and easy to understand.

"Abby," Kaffee said with interest. "When you were asked to analyze the Director's blood and vomit, what were you looking for?"

"GHB, a commonly used date rape drug, as well as the level of alcohol in her blood," answered Abby brightly. "Her BAC was incredibly low, but it had been a while—there's no accurate way to say what it was the night before."

"Did you find GHB?" asked Kaffee.

"No," Abby said, with a frown. "I checked several times. But the description the Director gave concerning her black out wasn't consistent with just alcohol, and my analyses were coming up a little odd—and I decided to check for Flunitrazepam."

"Flunitrazepam," Kaffee repeated slowly. He furrowed his brow. "What is that, exactly?"

"It's a drug," she said. "More commonly known as Rohypnol, or "roofie". It is difficult to detect, and it is actually rarely used, so there are not many tests for it. But I found it. Copious amounts of it," Abby finished proudly.

Kaffee smiled.

"What are its effects, Abby? The '_roofie'_."

"Flunitrazepam not only knocks out its victim, but causes anterograde amnesia, meaning it either muddles or complete erases memory of the events that took place while its victim was under the influence."

Kaffee nodded.

"Meaning…?"

"It means," Abby said clearly. "That since the Director was under the influence of Flunitrazepam—as my tests confirmed—she would have been legally unable to consent to anything, as she spent the night out cold."

Abby nodded triumphantly, smiling.

"Sounds like a dangerous drug," Kaffee said darkly. "Thank you, Ms. Sciuto—before I turn you over to the defense, can you tell us what your qualifications are as a forensic scientist? One more time?"

Abby nodded again.

"I'm a federal forensic scientist for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. I studied Forensics at Louisiana State University, and then studied concentrations Ballistics and DNA Mapping at Tulane before moving to DC, where I worked in a fellowship identifying war criminals based on their weapons, clothing, and the fibers they left on victims. I've been published in certified forensic academic journals and I have worked for the federal government for more than ten years."

"Thank you, Miss Sciuto," Kaffee said warmly. He turned to the judge. "No more questions, Your Honor."

The judge nodded, and made some notes.

"Counselor," she said, flicking her eyes at Fernandez.

She stood up, clasping her hands and pacing up to the stand.

"You have a very impressive resume, Miss Sciuto."

"Thank you," Abby said politely.

She looked at Ziva and smiled. She found the Director and looked at her meaningfully, determined to do her right. This was always the hard part of the trials—the evil, nefarious _defense_ attorneys who wanted to let bad guys go free.

"Though I doubt it is impressive enough for you to have found Flunitrazepam in the Director's system."

Abby's smile faded. She narrowed her eyes and pouted her lips, hesitating a moment.

"Are you saying I lied?"

"No, no, no, not at all, Miss Sciuto," soothed Fernandez. "I am merely saying I find it hard to believe you found Flunitrazepam in the Director's system."

"Are you a forensic scientist now, ma'am?" asked Abby, a little Louisiana-sweetheart coming out in her voice.

Fernandez smiled crisply.

"Hardly, though your joke is cute," she mocked. "Answer me this, Miss Sciuto, are you aware that Flunitrazepam, '_roofie'_, while a household word, has actually found to have been used in less than one percent of rapes?"

Abby nodded emphatically.

"I _actually_ am aware of that," she answered curtly.

"Oh?" Fernandez's eyebrows lifted delicately. "And you still believe you found it?"

"I don't believe," Abby corrected. "I know. Flunitrazepam was present. See for yourself," Abby pointed at the display boards.

Fernandez barely afforded them a glance.

"Uh-huh," she said skeptically. "You believe that even though Flunitrazepam has been found to be nearly undetectable twenty-four hours later, much less the forty-eight you _claim_ to have discovered it at?"

Abby did not answer, though she started to—she tried to, but Fernandez went on.

"Answer me this, Miss Sciuto—is there a chance that you were wrong, that there was no roofie, and the Director was merely—to put it in the vernacular—drunk off her ass?"

"I wasn't wrong," Abby said firmly. "I found the roofie."

"That was not my question. Is there a chance—even miniscule, considering the difficulty of detecting Flunitrazepam—that you were wrong?"

Abby hesitated. She had to answer in the positive; there was always a chance that she was wrong—but she didn't want to say it. She looked at the lawyer. She stared at her in a steely way—so she looked at Jenny. And Jenny gave a nod—ever so slightly.

"Yes," Abby admitted bitterly. "There's a _chance_."

"That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" asked Fernandez.

"That's a chance," continued Abby, brightening, "which is why I sent the samples to a colleague at the DC sex crimes unit, whose express specialty is drug analysis in the blood stream. He confirmed Flunitrazepam in the Director's system," Abby paused, and then continued smugly. "His record of making mistakes is l_ess than one percent_."

Fernandez looked slightly sour.

She turned up her nose and accepted a bit of defeat, though she did throw in a final, snarky little word:

"I'd hate to see an innocent man convicted because someone ignored that margin of error—measly as it is."

Abby frowned, opening her mouth to say something. She remembered where she was though—and she held back, pouting somewhat. It seemed as if Fernandez was done; she was messing with papers on her desk, and then suddenly, she picked one up and turned around.

"One more thing, Miss Sciuto—tell us about these results," she said sweetly, tilting her head innocently. "The ones oh-so-conveniently not on the cute little display board."

Abby squinted.

"What is there to tell?" she asked. "I don't recognize—"

"Let me refresh you," said Fernandez. "This is a photo of the semen found elsewhere on the Director's upholstery," she said. "The other sample you identified, and found apparently irrelevant."

Abby looked at Jenny, pale.

Jenny cocked her head. This aspect of the case she didn't know. Gibbs had not told her, and now Abby looked upset—naturally, both of these facts made her apprehensive. Kaffee looked back at her, and she shrugged. Abby bit her lip.

"The other sample is irrelevant," Abby said.

"No, I don't think so," Fernandez sighed, clicking her tongue. "Miss Sciuto, who does the second semen sample belong to?"

Abby tilted her head down a little dejectedly, caught again in the you-can't-lie-on-the-stand trap.

She cleared her throat and looked at Jenny again.

"Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs," she said softly.

Jenny's eyes widened just a little. She felt as if she'd been punched in the gut, but her only reaction was to lower her head a little and touch her brow with two of her fingers. Another jittery murmur ran through the courtroom.

"That unique name just keeps coming up," Fernandez mused. She looked at the picture, and furrowed her brow, as if thinking of something. "Well, now, wait a minute—then, isn't it plausible to infer that Agent Gibbs could have raped the Director?"

Abby looked shocked.

"Gibbs?" she almost shouted. "Gibbs, hurt someone? Hurt the _Director_? Are you _crazy_?" Abby burst out.

As uncomfortable and thrown off as Jenny was, she was touched by the anger in Abby's tone.

Fernandez was unruffled.

"It is a possibility."

"That sample," snapped Abby, pointing at the paper, "is old. It's deteriorated, and it's barely enough of a match to qualify for court—it was probably deposited weeks ago, if not months, whereas the sample matching Howard is _fresh_ and unmolested—_unlike_ the Director."

Jenny smirked. It was kind of a funny joke.

Fernandez looked at the picture again, this time glancing back up at the jury and raising her eyebrows. Then, pointedly, Fernandez looked back at Jenny, and back at the picture. She turned her nose up and frowned sadly.

"That sample," she said carefully, "seems like enough reasonable doubt for me."

* * *

><p>Tony DiNozzo cocked his head with interest as he watched Ziva rather angrily chop up a chicken. He liked the nights when he came over and she was cooking—even though it was kind of a lot, because Ziva kind of cooked a lot.<p>

She was just cooking in a particularly violent way today.

"Uh, everything okay, Ziva?" Tony asked hopefully, taking a sip of the beer she had handed him when he waltzed in.

She afforded him a glare and returned to chopping her chicken, lifting a shoulder.

"I do not see why it would be," she said tightly. "What is okay about Howard getting off of the peg?"

"It's 'hook', Ziva," corrected Tony automatically. "And what are you talking about? He isn't off the hook—the trial just started!"

Ziva shrugged, snapping the knife particularly hard against the cutting board.

"It seems to me like he is," she said bitterly. "Your American media is saying cruel things about Jenny already, false things—and that lawyer of Howard's seems to think that Gibbs and Jenny have something to do with Howard raping Jenny, which makes no sense!"

"Don't be so pessimistic," encouraged Tony in disbelief, treading carefully. He had trouble figuring out why Ziva was so upset. She usually didn't act upset even when she was. "That's just how our system works."

"I do not trust your system," Ziva scoffed, turning towards him and pointing the knife threateningly. Tony squeaked, and widened his eyes, freezing. "Your system is too nice to people. Your system keeps terrorists in cozy cells when they should be dead. Dead, Tony," she repeated dangerously. "Your system just lets people go on technicalities, even when everyone knows they are _guilty_."

Tony just stared at her for a minute. He lifted a shoulder desperately.

"Of course it does, Ziva, that's the point," he said simply. "It's America. Better a hundred guilty free than one innocent incarcerated."

She scoffed. She still held the knife up, glaring at him.

Tony set his beer down on the counter and inched forward, taking the knife away hesitantly.

"Why are you so pissed?" he asked.

"She is my friend," Ziva growled defensively.

Tony eyed her skeptically.

"Yeah, okay," he said. "But why are you really so pissed?"

"Because she needs justice, Tony!" snapped Ziva. "I want to see him be punished for what he did to her—I do not care if Jenny does not remember it, I _do_ remember it!"

"Are we talking about you or Jenny?"

"It is one and the same!" snarled Ziva, leaping away from him. She abandoned cooking. "You do not understand."

"Well you're not making any sense," Tony retorted bluntly, crossing his arms.

She glared at him.

"You may leave, then, Tony."

"I don't want to leave! I'm just sayin', you're not making sense."

Ziva threw her hands up.

"Do you know that there is nothing that can happen to a man that feels like rape?" she asked sharply. She stormed forward and grabbed Tony's arm and slammed him against her refrigerator, pinning him tightly. She shoved her knee into the back of his and paralyzed his movements, leaving him to struggle feebly. "I can only try to make you feel as trapped and as violated and as broken and desecrated as a raped woman, but you will never know—do you understand?"

"Let me go, Ziva!" he shouted.

She pushed him harder for a moment.

"There is only one way to quell the fear and that is to see the attacker dead or helpless," she hissed, releasing Tony.

She was breathing heavily. He turned around, rubbing his neck with a glare.

"Was that necessary?" he asked angrily.

"Yes," she snapped.

"Why can't you just tell me what happened to you?" he retorted seriously, folding his arms again. "Instead of beating the crap out of me or internalizing Jenny's case and trying to make it justice for yourself."

"I will never have justice," she said.

"Why not?" provoked Tony.

"I do not know who raped me," she said venomously.

He stared at her, faltering.

"You told me you'd hunt anyone who got you down and—and do terrible things to them—"

"I would," she interrupted fiercely. "I would but I cannot. He wore a mask. Neither Jenny nor I saw his face. I only saw his hands," Ziva thrust up her palm and pointed to it. "He had the flag of Palestine tattooed on his palm. I saw it when he hit me. When he held me down. But I never saw his face. I never heard his name."

Tony nodded, stepping closer.

"Yeah? Go on," he prodded callously. "What else?"

"I did not _want_ to extract Jenny from the situation—I was not even set to be in Cairo, but Mossad insisted that the blood of an American agent remain un-spilled, and I took her place. I was wounded. I was tied up. Stripped. Beaten. Stretched out on the flag of Israel and raped. I was left alive and left on the doorstep of the Embassy in Cairo so the world could see the shame of Israel. And I never saw his face again."

Tony nodded. He stared at her dark, venomous eyes. She pushed him back.

"So you're mad because you couldn't kill him," he said.

"I pretend every man I kill is him," she snarled.

"And you're mad you accepted that fate so the Director wouldn't be touched," Tony continued.

"And someone hurt her anyway!" agreed Ziva. "And she is my friend now; she is not just an American agent! And if Howard is cleared—if Jenny must suffer like I have suffered, then there will be no point in anything—"

"That's bullshit," Tony said shortly, shrugging his shoulders.

She stared at him, open-mouthed, shocked.

"Well it is," he said forcefully. "Jenny isn't going to suffer like that. She's got Gibbs—and she doesn't have to remember what you remember."

"What do I have?" Ziva asked contemptuously. "A father who told me to get over it, and an agency of men who averted their eyes."

Tony looked at her, devilishly offended.

"What am I, chopped liver?" he asked, kidding a little.

She shook her head at him, her shoulders slumping.

"You are a rule I broke," she snapped hurtfully. "And you are a skirt-chaser."

Looking genuinely confused, Tony shook his head, refusing to agree with her.

"You never wear skirts, Zee," he pointed out, standing his ground.

She bit her lip, staring at him, as if the words had more meaning than he could understand. He had said them for a reason though. She was being mean and he didn't like it, but he was determined to prove that he could try to understand.

Ziva hung her head and put her palms up.

"I want to see Howard in jail," she said seriously. "I do not want Jenny to walk around in a world where _he_ walks, too. I did not save her from that fate only to have it happen in her home."

* * *

><p>Gibbs was sure there were reporters camped out somewhere around Jenny's house. They had seemed to be around her all day—she had been on the news all day, particularly after the news that she was having an affair with an employee had exploded onto the scene.<p>

Suddenly, old cases of his were subject to news stories, too. Old clips of him getting into it with pushy reporters. The media was scrutinizing cases of his that had concerned questionable ways of finding a suspect and coaxing him or her to confess.

It was all a damn headache.

He figured he didn't need to care about discretion anymore, and there was no way in hell he was going to sit at home and wonder about Jenny. Not when they were sleeping together again and she seemed to have gone straight home from the courthouse—meaning she had opted against getting work done.

Gibbs set his gun and badge on the table in her hallway, locking her door behind him. He peered down the hall to the study, unable to tell if she was in it. He was about halfway down the hall, still looking, when he caught sight of a certain brunette in his peripheral.

He turned and glared at her. She noticed him. Both asked at the same time:

"What are you doing here?"

Gibbs narrowed his eyes at Hart. He refused to answer until she did—besides; it was obvious what he was doing there.

"If she has to deal with the press when she leaves her house, I have to be here to control it," Hart answered in a clipped tone. "Do you ever knock?"

Gibbs shook his head slowly and pulled his hand from his pocket, twirling the gold key.

"Got a key," he said smugly.

Hart scoffed at him, turning back to her papers.

"You really shouldn't be here," she warned tensely. "Bad press."

"Figured the cat's out of the bag," he answered with a shrug. "Where is she?"

"She's upstairs," Hart answered. She turned a page in the notebook she had out. "Don't go compromising her honor, Mr. Gibbs," she quipped.

Gibbs scowled at her and turned, marching up the stairs. There was no water running, so she wasn't in the shower. Still, he was cautious—careful of startling her—as he walked into the master bedroom and searched around.

Jenny was in the bathroom, poking her face in the mirror. She looked quite absorbed in what she was doing, and was wrapped in a short, old cotton robe. Gibbs strolled over, barging right into the bathroom as if he owned the place.

"Jethro," she said under her breath. "You scared me."

He moved around her in the bathroom, staring over her shoulder at her reflection.

"Did not," he answered.

"You're right," she sighed. "I just wanted something to say."

"Ran into your friend downstairs," he said, an annoyed look on his face.

Jenny smirked, still poking at her brow.

"And you didn't know whose bedroom to go to, did you?" she retorted smartly.

Gibbs glared at her.

"Stop saying that," he ordered.

She shrugged.

Gibbs didn't like it. It was insecure or something. He didn't give a damn about Margaret Allison Hart, and he didn't know why Jenny thought he did. Frustrated, he began to look around. The floor was a little damp, and so was her hair. She had showered at some point. The room smelled like soap—he stopped.

He noticed a box in the trash and snatched it up swiftly, catching her attention. Underneath the box, was what had come in the box.

"Jen?" he asked tensely, crushing the box a little in his grip. "Are you pregnant?"

He felt like he had been punched in the gut, staring at her while he held the box.

She looked at him, nonchalant, and quietly shook her head.

"No," she said shortly. "I didn't even think I was," she added, abandoning her face and washing her hands. She opened her medicine cabinet and reached for a toothbrush. "I just—I just wanted to confirm that I wasn't. Because it would have been his."

Gibbs threw the box away roughly, and watched her brush her teeth. Neat, circular motions for exactly two minutes. Jenny was annoyingly good at tooth care. She leaned forward to spit.

"What would you have done?" Jenny asked in a clipped tone.

"What?"

"If I was pregnant."

"What kind of question is that?" Gibbs asked sharply, staring at her.

Jenny rinsed out her mouth, putting away her toothbrush.

"It's a question."

"What would you have done?" he retorted.

She shrugged.

"Abortion," she said. "I don't know. I'm not pregnant."

He made a noise of disbelief.

"You started it!" he accused.

She just looked at him sideways, her eyes dull.

"Well, I don't know what else to talk about, Jethro," she said bluntly. "I don't want to talk about the whole world knowing we fucked in the back of my car."

He frowned, and stepped forward, nudging her out of the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" she asked tiredly.

He flicked off the light and poked her in the back insistently, gently urging her to her bed. She laughed and crawled up on it, turning to glare at him.

"Jethro?" she asked, smirking. "_What_ are you doing?"

He shrugged and grabbed her around the waist, pinning her and crawling over top of her.

"Taking you to bed," he muttered seriously.

She rolled her eyes.

"That's not very good for my reputation now, is it?" she asked.

He glared at her and sat up, looking at her. He rested his hand on her thigh and rubbed soothingly, tilting his head. She sat up, pushing her hair back. She threw herself at Jethro playfully, knocking him back, and sprawled on top of him, snuggling close.

"You shouldn't be here, Jethro," she said dejectedly.

He snorted derisively.

"Jen, there's no secret," he growled. "You've got to face it."

She lowered her head to his shoulder and shifted off him, curling up at his side.

"Have you seen the news?" Jenny asked haggardly.

He just shrugged as if he didn't care.

"I am being called a whore, and a disgrace to feminism," she said sardonically. "The SecNav is livid."

"You didn't ask to be attacked," Gibbs growled edgily.

Jenny sat up and looked at him skeptically.

"He's livid about you, Jethro," she said carefully.

"Never did like that guy," was all Jethro said.

Jenny stood up. She walked over to her bureau and untied her robe, slipping it off her shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. She plucked a t-shirt out of the drawer and began to slip her arms through. Gibbs stopped her, turning her around towards him. She shivered, inching her head out of the tangle of t-shirt cotton.

"Jethro," she snapped. "I'm cold," she whined, shivering.

"Well, yeah, Jen," he answered, deadpan, whipping the shirt back off her. "You're naked."

She backhanded his chest, snatching at the shirt.

"Give that to me," she said.

He shook his head and dropped it.

"I like it better when you're naked," he said, leaning in and placing his arms on the bureau behind her. She squawked in protest, her nose pressed against his chest. She patted her hands at his belt.

"You get naked then," she ordered. "This isn't fair."

"Life isn't fair, Jenny," he said seriously—and picked her up effortlessly. He slid one arm between her legs and up, letting one long leg dangle towards the floor.

"I hate it when you do this," she sighed, flopping back limply. Her back arched, and he smirked, appreciative of the view. Only a little roughly, he threw her down on the bed again and then lay on his back, pulling her atop him. She arched an eyebrow. "I still don't think this is fair," she remarked, giving a pointed look to his fully-clothed self.

"Feeling insecure, Jen?" he mocked, narrowing his eyes smugly. As if Jenny ever felt insecure about her nudity.

She looked angry momentarily.

"Yes, Jethro," she said sharply. "I am."

He frowned slightly, placing his hands on her hips. Slowly, he moved his palms and fingertips up her abdomen, stroking, feeling—marking. He leaned forward and nipped at her navel, sitting up closer to her and bringing his hands to her shoulders to bind her against him.

"Can't have that," he growled in the back of his throat.

He reached up to tilt her head back and kissed her, and it was out-of-character that Jenny just passively let him kiss her—reveled in the kiss; soaked up his kiss.

She _tasted_ insecure.

* * *

><p>"Jen," grumbled Gibbs sleepily, rolling over in bed and patting the sheets for her.<p>

He blinked and sat up, narrowing his eyes. She was gone, and her spot was cold-ish, so she had been gone for a bit. Muttering in annoyance, he got up and pulled on some jeans. He was annoyed because he was awake and she wasn't there, and he had this annoying chivalry thing that didn't allow him to just roll over and ignore her absence.

Rubbing his forehead, he left the master bedroom.

The whole house was dark—he assumed Hart was asleep in Jenny's childhood bedroom—and he went down the stairs carefully. Though he knew them well, it was easy to misjudge the width of them and fall.

There was a glow of light from the kitchen, and when Gibbs strolled in, he realized it was from the lamp built in above the stove. Jenny was leaning over the sink, cast in the glow…vomiting.

"Jen," snapped Gibbs, caught off guard. He didn't mean to sound angry, but she surprised him.

He turned the kitchen light on and she flinched, unused to the bright light. She turned on the faucet and picked up a glass, her shoulders still heaving. Gibbs crossed the room quickly, instinctively resting a hand on her lower back. He crouched down a little, to eye-level.

"You okay?" he asked seriously, reminded strongly of the night she had stumbled to his doorstep—the night this had all started.

She coughed, sinking down to rest her head against the sink.

"Jenny," he said quietly, running his palm up and down her spine. He sighed tiredly, frowning tensely. He rubbed his forehead again, still adjusting to the light. She shivered under his hand and looked up, dark circles under her eyes.

"I'm fine," she snapped.

"No," he said.

"Dammit, Jethro, go back to bed," she snarled. "I came down here so you wouldn't hear me."

"Tough luck, Jen," he retorted stubbornly.

She glared at him blearily. Then, she turned to the sink and vomited again, closing her eyes with a groan.

"Jesus," murmured Gibbs. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

She shook her head a little, slumping down again. He took a glass from her and filled it up with cold water, handing it to her. He nudged her hand with it until she grasped it and straightened, wrapping one arm tightly around her middle.

"I just," she began, stuttering. "I just—I think—I remember something." She took a drink of water.

Gibbs' eyes narrowed. He rested his hand on her shoulder and gave her a look, lifting his brow insistently. Jenny held the glass to her lips and shrugged.

"You think?" Gibbs prompted.

"I had a nightmare," she choked out. "It was sex—but it wasn't with you, and someone was scratching my thighs—clawing at me, Jethro—" she threw up again and he grit his teeth, frustrated. He held on to her arm gently.

"It wasn't sex, then," he said pointedly. "Jen, it wasn't sex. It was rape," he insisted.

"I know it was rape!" she shouted, and then covered her mouth, eyes wide. She seemed to remember she had a houseguest—then she looked down. His jeans, without a belt, were slung low on his hips; it was sexy, but somewhat revealing. "Put some clothes on, I have a guest."

"I don't give a damn," he retorted, pushing the water towards her mouth again. "You put clothes on!" he retorted immaturely. She was the one only wearing a cotton t-shirt and some skimpy little panty-shorts thing.

She tilted her head back and took a deep breath, her eyes wide and bothered. She kept taking deep breaths.

"You gonna be sick again?" he asked.

"No. I think I'm done," she answered weakly. She slammed her hands down, hitting the glass and splashing water. The glass slipped and shattered on the floor. She gasped and closed her eyes.

"Easy, Jen," Gibbs soothed, stepping back. "C'mere," he muttered, gingerly, leading her away from the shattered glass. She gave a noise of frustration.

"God damnit," she swore. "It's catching up to me, Jethro," she choked, grabbing his arms and holding on to him.

"What?" he asked absently, having crouched down with a dishtowel to clean up the glass.

"The bad press," she said unevenly. "The case," she added. She tilted her head back and winced, closing her eyes and turning her head away. "Every time I have a nightmare I smell tequila—and I, this time I could feel him…inside of me."

Gibbs looked up angrily, one knee on the floor. The very idea pissed him off. He wanted to get his hands on Howard and beat him to a bloody pulp—and then put a bullet through his sorry skull. He stood up.

He reached out and took Jenny's hip.

"Stop," she moaned, hanging her head dejectedly and resisting a little.

"What's going on?" asked a sharp voice from the doorway.

Both Jenny and Gibbs looked over. Gibbs swore under his breath; Hart was standing in the hallway. Jenny rolled her eyes, looking annoyed.

"Nothing, Maggie," she placated.

"I heard glass shattering," said Hart coldly, her eyes narrowing on Jethro. She focused on his hand on Jenny's hip, and how she seemed to be resisting his touch. "You want to let her go, Mr. Gibbs?"

"You think he's hurting me?" asked Jenny loudly, snapping out of her haze. "I'm fine, Allison, go back to bed."

"Things don't sound fine—

"I'm having a moment," Jenny snapped sardonically. "Jethro is the only person invited to the show," she added venomously.

Gibbs gave a placating, almost apologetic look to Hart; the brunette looked hurt by Jenny's bristling. Hart glowered, her eyes narrowing harshly again.

"Your lip is busted, Jenny," she said shortly.

Jenny touched her mouth, confused.

"It isn't," she said.

Hart inclined her head.

"It's cut," she said, turning a glare on Gibbs. "You have something to do with that?"

Livid at the very suggestion that he would hit Jenny, Gibbs bared his teeth at Hart, aware of exactly how Jenny had acquired the split lip.

"Yeah, I did," he answered aggressively.

Hart looked shocked at his admission and leapt forward a little.

"Jenny?" she hissed, looking as if she were going to call the police.

"I was biting my lip, Maggie," snapped Jenny. She hated that Hart had walked in to see her have a mini-break down; it was bad enough that Jethro was being so stoic about the whole thing, and seeing her like this.

Hart stopped short.

"What?" she asked, confused. "Why?"

"Well," began Jenny sarcastically. "I was having quite the nice orgasm, and I didn't want to wake you," she ground out.

Hart blushed suddenly, standing awkwardly in the kitchen. Still angry with the assuming brunette, Gibbs turned his back on her, pulling out a chair for Jenny.

"Just sit down," he ordered, finding her another glass and handing it to her.

Jenny took the glass but she glared at Hart, holding her old friends' gaze. Hart looked as if she wanted to apologize; ironically, she bit her lip. Jenny just dropped her hand on the table, looking away. She trailed her finger around the rim of her glass and stared at it, listening to Jethro clean up the broken glass.

"You can't fix any of this, Allison," Jenny croaked.

"I'm good, Jen," Hart responded seriously. "I can control it. You'll be fine."

Jenny shook her head. She turned to the side and bent forward. She started to cry.

Gibbs dumped the dishtowel and glass in her sink with a clatter and crouched down, one hand on the edge of the chair, and one on her knee.

"Back to bed," he muttered shooting a wary look at Hart. He didn't want to deal with this while Hart was around. No one needed to see him care for Jenny. It was something he kept to himself—that way; no one could use it against him, or use it to hurt her.

Jenny just buried her head in his neck and touched his chest, pressing her fingertips into him.

"Why couldn't you just say it, Jethro?" she asked quietly. "I wouldn't have been so drunk if…you're such a bastard, Jethro," she cried softly.

Nettled, and a little shamed, Gibbs just looked away from Hart. He didn't even know if she heard—but here they were, back at the root of their problems.

* * *

><p><em>I love Hart so very, very much. Someone called it-she's somewhat of a catalyst for Jenny.<em>

_Remember to leave feedback; it's appreciated._

_-Alexandra_


	8. Chapter 8

_****A/N: In so many ways, this chapter is the climax. _

* * *

><p><em><strong>8<strong>_

"Why do you insist on having that on?" M. Allison Hart asked as she fastened on an earring, puckering her lips at her reflection in Jenny's vanity.

She referred to the television which, in honor of the reconvening of the trial today, was going on and on and on about Jenny's illicit affair with Gibbs. Next to a cup of coffee Noemi had brought in was a Newspaper that ran a front-page photo of Gibbs and Jenny together at the courthouse—pinpointing his hand on her hip.

Jenny shrugged, busy fooling with her own make-up in the bathroom.

"Know your enemy," she murmured sourly.

She touched the circles beneath her eyes, frowning. There had to be a better way to cover them, else she looked as if she had a black eye—again. She'd chosen conservative grey and conservative clothes for court. It wasn't as if she had dressed garishly for the first day, things had just changed since the affair had broken.

There was no need to give the media another reason to call her a 'hussy', or the 'manipulative, modern-day Whore of Babylon'. She could thank Glenn Beck for that one. The news wasn't even so much about Howard and sexual assault any longer—the stations were simply abuzz with the news that the Director of NCIS had a boyfriend.

A boyfriend who worked for her, and who (it was now being reported) had trained her, and had probably been the reason she was promoted to where she was.

It infuriated her. If only they knew the bloody altar she'd thrown Jethro on to get to this point—he had nothing to do with her selection for this post; she had earned this, and kicked him to the curb just to prove eligible for it—

"It is _my_ job to know your enemy," Hart said crisply. She turned off the news feed Jenny had playing from her laptop. "You don't have to listen to that slander."

"Maggie, I'm busy loathing myself," Jenny said primly. "Leave me alone and tell me if I can wear purple pumps with this."

She turned to her friend, showing off a pair of impeccably pressed charcoal slacks and a very light grey oxford unbuttoned at the top to an emerald camisole. Allison smirked in disbelief.

"Since when do you need to be told what shoes to wear?"

"Since my clothing choices factored into how much of a skank I am," Jenny retorted smoothly, raising an eyebrow.

Allison tilted her head back and laughed, retrieving Jenny's pair of violet pumps from the closet.

"Here," she said, shoving the shoes into the redhead's hands. "Give 'em something to talk about."

"Already did," muttered Jenny bitterly, exiting the bathroom and nudging her friend out of the way. She sat down on the vanity stool and slipped on the shoes, looking with narrow eyes at the paused newscast on her laptop.

Allison took Jenny's place in the bathroom, starting in on her hair.

Jenny took a drink of her coffee and made a face. It was too cool.

"That isn't going to wake you up," Allison said seriously. "You've slept too little for even caffeine to run you. Why is that, anyway?"

Sure; Jenny had the stress of the trial—but Allison hadn't noticed any weird change in her habits until a couple days ago. Jenny had started working late, late hours—and then staying up later working in the study. As the study was directly below the room where Allison stayed, jazz music could be heard throughout the night.

"You wouldn't sleep well, either," Jenny said guardedly.

Allison rolled her eyes.

"It's him, isn't it?" she asked bluntly.

"Maggie," began Jenny with a sigh, rubbing her forehead.

"What? Don't '_Maggie'_ me in that tone of voice. What is it with you and him, Jen? I've been hearing about this man since you up and joined the damn agency, and it seems that all he does is give you grief—"

"You don't know anything about our relationship—"

"Jen," interrupted Allison in exasperation. She turned towards her friend and spread out her arms in disbelief, a jar of eye shadow in one hand and a brush in the other. "You've told me _everything_. I know why you left him, and you say even he doesn't know that."

"He does now," she said grimly. He had pretty much figured it out after the Frog Fiasco, as it was now christened.

"Okay," said Allison, taking a breath. She set her things down and folded her arms, leaning against the door. "It's madness, Jenny," she said darkly. "You started right back up with him and you knew the risks—and you say you fight all the time, and you stormed off drunk because of him—what is it about him?"

Jenny turned and glared at Allison, slightly annoyed that her confidence in the brunette was being used against her.

"Why is this relevant to the case?" she asked icily.

"It's relevant to your well-being," retorted Allison sharply. "If you think he's such a bastard, why do you do this to yourself?"

Jenny just narrowed her eyes again, keeping a stiff-upper lip.

Hart studied the redhead, giving a snort and then sighing as she reached over to return to doing her make-up.

"So you love him," she said. "Well, Jen, if you do, and you claim he doesn't feel the same way, that sucks—but you can't live like that."

"He does," Jenny said sharply.

She said it without thinking about it. She knew Jethro loved her.

She heard a clatter and Allison came storming out of the bathroom. Surprised, Jenny lifted her brows and looked up, pursing her lips.

"Excuse me?" Allison asked in disbelief.

Jenny shrugged abrasively, daring her friend to question it. Allison didn't know shit about the relationship between Jenny and Gibbs; sure, it might look dysfunctional—even unhealthy—to some, but she knew it wasn't. They fought like cats and dogs, but they wanted each other and only each other.

Allison pointed at Jenny.

"You told me that the reason you were plastered at that bar was because you had a fight with him," she growled. "A fight in which he refused to commit to you, or say those words."

Jenny opened her mouth slowly, staring at Allison. That was what to fight had been about—to an extent, and no—not to an extent. That was the gist of it. But then, Jenny surprised herself with what she said, and Allison's immediate reaction to it.

"Yes," Jenny said dangerously.

Allison relaxed, looking at Jenny with confusion on her face. Jenny stared her down, thinking completely about something else. Things had been tense with Jethro—again—since the night after the trial; since Allison had interrupted them in the kitchen and Jenny had brought that sore spot up again.

And now, she was wondering why it even mattered.

Hart threw up her hand violently; shaking her head and storming off to finish her make-up.

"You two are fucking crazy," she said, rolling her eyes. "If you know he loves you, like you're some damn Disney fairy princess, why the hell do you need him to tell you?"

Jenny blinked, cocking her head as she reached over to turn the grim news back on.

"I don't," she said seriously; confidently.

And she didn't.

What a novel thought.

* * *

><p>Timothy McGee smiled encouragingly as he waggled a very large, very full, and very cold <em>Caf<em>-_pow_! in Abby Sciuto's face. His eyes shone with hope—he was hoping she would turn and smile instead of looking so gloomy.

She sighed and took the drink, taking a forlorn sip, and McGee frowned, skulking up next to her as he eyed the current analysis she was running for a different agent.

"Abby, cheer up," he said unhappily. "Please?"

"How am I supposed to cheer up, Tim?" she asked, throwing her head back and shaking her pigtails like a frustrated animal. "The mean lawyer attacking Jenny made me sound like I was wrong and I had to expose Jenny and Gibbs' secret love affair that's not a secret and now I'm going to have to go to court for the Skaric case and that has uncertain evidence anyway and I can't do anything right and also this morning my heater broke!"

McGee stared at her. He reached out very slowly and patted Abby's shoulder delicately.

"It's okay," he said slowly. "Abby, that lawyer can make it sound like you're wrong all she wants. Science says you're right," he reminded her.

"But juries are people, not science," Abby pouted. "And people are influenced by the media and the media keeps saying the Director is a slut." The Goth glared at her computer and turned to McGee frowning.

"Nobody watches news if it's not about sluts," McGee said simply, shrugging a little. "You do what you can," he tried sympathetically.

"Stop patting me like I'm a puppy," she said, crossing her arms. Tim snatched his hand back, noticing he was still doing the patronizing-pat thing to her. He smiled apologetically.

"I can come fix your heat," he offered.

She stared at him in disbelief, her eyebrow going up. Then her demeanor changed and her eyes lit up and she laughed, clapping her hands together.

"No you can't!" she cried, giggling. "McGee, it's a mechanical problem, not a computer! I need _Gibbs_ to fix it!"

Tim blushed, stuttering a little—mumbling something 'bout how he could still try. Abby just giggled and gave him a hug, sweeping a soft, chaste kiss across his flushed cheek.

"You're so sweet, Timmy," she said to him, pulling back. "Speaking of _El Jefe_, where is he? His gun and stuff's not here."

"Beats me," McGee answered, shrugging. "Tony's been trying to figure it out all day."

"Is Ziva at the courthouse?" Abby asked.

McGee nodded. Abby sighed. She bit her lip and picked up her _Caf-pow_!, tapping her fingers against it rhythmically.

"I have a bad feeling today, McGee," she said firmly.

He tiled his head at her.

"What about?" he asked.

Abby narrowed her eyes and glanced at the door, frowning a little.

"I saw the assistant director here this morning," she said.

McGee stared at her blankly.

"Vance?" she clarified, as if it were obvious.

McGee still looked blank.

Abby rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Hmpf. Well. It feels bad. And not just because of the toothpicks."

McGee stared at her, uncomprehending, and just nodded supportively.

She took a serious sip of the caffeinated juice.

* * *

><p>"I have no comment on my personal life."<p>

Jenny swore to herself as she said the phrase once again—she was cold, impersonal, and firm about it, and this time she didn't even remember which News outlet's barracuda reporter she had directed it at.

Agent Peterson, his arm out stiffly to prevent anyone from touching her or getting too close, blocked the courthouse doors as he let her in and waited for Lieutenant Kaffee and Hart to follow. With her customary sickly sweet press-grin, Allison rested her petite white hand on the reporter she was engaged with's shoulder and tossed back her hair fetchingly.

She answered some question of his in a clipped tone that was both flirtatious and incredibly intimidating and followed the rest of their party in—the doors shut behind her. Video press had lost their courtroom privileges; only journalists were allowed.

"You need a new party line," Kaffee joked somewhat half-heartedly as they walked towards the courtroom.

Jenny tilted her head and shot a look at Allison.

"You think?" she asked lightly.

Allison smirked.

"I could think something up," the brunette said slyly.

Peterson held the courtroom doors open. People were milling around inside, talking in a dull roar.

"Let's hear it," Jenny said, walking up to the front row.

"'Director Shepard, what can you tell us about your alleged affair with your employee and former boss, Agent Gibbs?' Well, Ms. Couric, I can tell you he's six feet of mind-blowing sex—something your uptight, mediocre reporting tells me you know nothing about."

Kaffee snorted, flinging his briefcase on the table. Jenny just raised an eyebrow and smirked.

Agent Peterson cleared his throat, shooting a sort of disapproving glance at them all. As Jenny moved to sit down in the seat directly behind her lawyer, he took her arm gently and leaned over, lowering his voice.

"Agent Gibbs is sitting in the back."

Jenny swiveled around a little too quickly.

Narrowing her eyes at Jethro—who was, indeed, sitting eerily in the back corner—she nodded curtly to Peterson and slipped past him, walking slowly towards the back as if she were up to nothing more than simple pacing.

Gibbs got up and moved out of the bench towards her as she walked, meeting her in the aisle.

She stood close to him, keeping her voice low.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed. She hadn't seen him since the night in the kitchen—and he sure as hell should not be here. The press would have a field day. SecNav would have a field day.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick fold of paper.

He tapped her shoulder with it grimly.

"I got served."

Jenny narrowed her eyes and took the envelope, opening it.

"By who—" she began, pausing as she read. "The _defense_?" she snapped quietly, folding the paper up rapidly. She set her jaw, glaring. "Why?"

"Don't know, Jen," he said curtly. "Thought you might."

"No," she said tightly, shaking her head. "There's no reason—this is a nightmare."

She glanced over her shoulder and sighed heavily.

"Come on," she said. "You need to talk to Kaffee."

She led Gibbs to her team with a look of resolve on her face. Hart raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms defensively. Peterson nodded cordially; Kaffee stretched out his arm to shake Gibbs' hand.

"He's been summoned for the defense," Jenny said, jerking her thumb at Gibbs.

That was all she said. She sat down where Peterson' had stopped her from earlier and crossed her arms, her back straight and austere. She watched the expression on both Hart and Kaffee's faces and knew that Gibbs' presence here was in no way good—and so she just resigned herself to the day.

* * *

><p>"Tony, what are you doing?" McGee asked shortly.<p>

"Nothing, Boss!" shouted DiNozzo immediately, scrambling up from the nap he had been taking in Gibbs' chair. He blinked and then glared sheepishly at McGee.

"Boss?" asked Tim, lifting his eyebrows smugly as he walked to his desk. "I could get used to that."

"Well don't, Probie," snapped Tony mockingly. "Gibbs would murder you."

"Find out where he is yet?" asked McGee, ignoring Tony's comment.

"Not really," Tony said, sulky. "I guess he's at the trial," Tony said, nodding at the muted TV that was somewhat covering the case. "Ziva is. Gibbs is. Why don't we all go watch?" he rambled sarcastically.

McGee stared at him.

"Is everything okay, Tony?" he asked sincerely.

"Yeah. Fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, no, McConcerned, it's not. My friend's been raped and her name's being dragged through the mud. The Boss has reverted back to pre-Ari-level bottled up anger and my girlfriend is on a vendetta against an invisible demon."

McGee stared at Tony, his eyes as wide as saucers. His brow furrowed slightly.

"Who's your girlfriend?" he asked blankly.

Tony looked at McGee in disbelief and held an open palm towards Ziva's desk.

"Are you really that unobservant, Tim?"

* * *

><p>Cynthia Summers stood firmly behind her desk, her arms crossed, and her headset pulled down like a half-necklace around her throat.<p>

"You are not allowed access to Director Shepard's office, Special Agent Vance," she said coolly. "That privilege only belongs to myself or the acting Director, and she has not appointed one."

"I am the assistant director, Miss Summers—"

"I am aware of that," Cynthia interrupted. "I still cannot allow you access."

"I have a meeting."

Exasperated, Cynthia leaned forward on her hands. She stared at the tall, formidable Leon Vance and narrowed her eyes.

"You have a meeting with the SecNav," she said, nodding in understanding. "It's been made clear to me. I'm also aware that you will be using her office. However _your_ meeting with Jarvis is set half an hour after the Director's meeting—and hers will not take place until four, when court recesses," Cynthia paused, arching an eyebrow. "Is there anything else you are confused about _sir_?"

Leon Vance looked at his watch.

"I'm just trying to do my job here, Cynthia," he said calmly. He hadn't been rude to her, just stubborn and very businesslike.

Cynthia nodded again, very curtly. As she started to speak, her door opened and Agent DiNozzo waltzed in, carrying the salad he'd offered to pick up for her when he went for lunch. He paused, and glared at the unfamiliar person.

"Problem, Cynthia?" he asked brightly, putting the salad down carefully.

"Is there a problem, Assistant Director Vance?" asked Cynthia pointedly.

Vance smiled, placating.

"No problem," he said, shaking his head.

He nodded his head to DiNozzo and left the office, ordering himself to let it go—this power struggle would be over by the start of prime time news, anyway.

* * *

><p>Jenny couldn't take her eyes off Jethro as he sat on the stand.<p>

It wasn't a soppy, gooey, she-was-so-in-love-and-he-was-so-good-looking-and-heroic sort of thing, it was a traumatized-can't-look-away-from-a-train-wreck stare. He had been the defense's second witness; first it had been Marcia Brady, to testify to Howard's likeable character.

But now it was Jethro, and Jenny was busy wondering if she was going to wake-up anytime soon.

The intense, unwavering stare was bothering him. She could tell, and she knew no one else but she could.

"You're going to burn a hole in his head," Allison had hissed in her ear moments ago. But Jenny ignored her. She was too busy watching her career dissolve in front of her eyes. It wasn't Jethro's fault; she just happened to realize it was happening while he was sitting there. She had an awful, empty feeling in her gut.

The Czech Republic Feeling, she liked to call it.

"And how long was the Director assigned to you in Europe?"

"She wasn't assigned to me," Gibbs said again. "We were a team."

"Yet you were her boss," said Fernandez.

"She deferred to my seniority," Gibbs answered cryptically.

"Uh-huh," murmured Fernandez. "Regardless of semantics, you still have not answered my question—how long were you together in Europe?"

Jenny blew air out softly through lips at the equivocal, loaded question. She still started at Jethro.

"Six months," he answered. She mentally made a check mark: _accurate_.

"And the two of you had a sexual relationship then, as well?"

Gibbs simply didn't answer. He glared silently at the lawyer.

"Agent Gibbs, need I remind you that you are under oath?"

At that, he nodded curtly.

"Are you saying that I need to remind you, or are you confirming your affair with the Director?"

"She wasn't the director then," Gibbs said. Smart-ass.

Jenny smirked. Just the shadow-ghost of a smirk.

Fernandez gave a tight, annoyed smile.

"Yes, well," she said icily, stopping in front of the stand. "You had an affair with Director Shepard when she was your inferior about seven years ago," she said. Gibbs did not answer, and Jenny saw the intelligence in it—he never outright said _yes_. "Wouldn't you say that contributed to her rather, ah, _stimulated_ movement up the ranks?"

"Objection!" snapped Kaffee angrily, standing up. "Is the defense really implying that the Director slept her way to her position?"

"I implied no such thing—"

"I'd personally call that _slander_, Your Honor."

The judge gave a hard look to both lawyers and then nodded curtly.

"Sustained," she said, shooting a reprimanding look at Fernandez. "You have no evidence to even suggest Director Shepard received her promotions based on anything other than personal merit."

Fernandez's demeanor became sour. She scowled, and turned back to Gibbs sharply.

"Let me rephrase," she said shortly. "Did your personal favor towards the Director contribute to her receiving a promotion?"

"No," answered Gibbs bluntly.

"It didn't? Can you be sure?" fired off Fernandez.

"She wasn't a probationary agent," Gibbs said with a shrug. "I didn't have any say in the matter. She got promoted. Didn't ask my opinion."

"And what would your opinion have been, Agent Gibbs?" asked Fernandez sarcastically.

Gibbs tilted his head brazenly at the lawyer.

"What do you think?" he asked, as if it were obvious.

Jenny smirked and looked down. A couple of the male jury members snorted or snickered—the answer was obvious. He wouldn't have promoted her, he would have kept her around so he could sleep with her.

"Your affair with the Director carried over when she became your superior," said Fernandez, clearly irritated with Gibbs.

"That's what you keep tellin' me."

She glared at him.

"That is a fact," she said sharply, "proven by scientific evidence—unless," Fernandez paused, tilting her head with a curious, innocent look. "You'd like to confess that your DNA sample indicates you raped Director Shepard."

Gibbs' glare hardened at the words. A muscle in his jaw twitched and he shifted very slightly in his seat, fixing an intimidating look on the lawyer who dared accuse him of such. After a moment of tense silence, he moved his head slowly to the left, to the right, and back again.

"No? There's no chance it was you?" asked Fernandez. She shot a look at the jury, held it, and shrugged. "A strong argument could be made for it—that she had ended the affair, and angry, you went after her—"

Fernandez trailed off and slowly looked back at Gibbs.

Jenny could sense Kaffee attempting to find a way to object.

She watched Gibbs' eyes go livid; black anger. He was in a sitting in which he could not express it—and that scared Jenny. She dreaded to think how it would come out later.

Gibbs inclined his head pointedly at Howard.

"He raped her," Gibbs said in a very quiet, controlled voice.

"You now that for sure?" asked Fernandez in feigned surprise.

Gibbs just looked at her. Fernandez sighed.

"You see, I don't think so, Gibbs. Now, I really don't think you did, either—I'll give credit to Miss Sciuto's science, here—but I just don't see my client here as a rapist."

Kaffee let out a loud, mocking snort. The judge shot him a warning look, but he got away with it—and the jury got it, too.

Fernandez suddenly changed her tune.

"How long had you and the Director been sleeping together before the alleged crime?" she asked, business-like.

"Relevance?" interjected Kaffee immediately.

The judge looked at Fernandez.

"I am trying to establish a level of connection between the Director and Agent Gibbs," Fernandez said silkily, "to better show how this is simply a cover up for an unfaithful act."

"Continue," said the judge.

Fernandez nodded.

"How long?"

Jenny still stared. She knew he had to answer. She just wondered what it would be. They had slept together a few times, but the real affair had started up after the Frog—

"A year," he said curtly.

Jenny lifted a brow. Interesting. He was including the few one-night things a few months after she'd been given the job.

Fernandez whistled.

"That's a long time," she remarked, shooting a look at the jury. "Let me ask you something, Agent Gibbs," she said. "Would you say you'd be angry if the Director cheated on you?"

Kaffee twitched. Jenny moved her hand slightly on her knee.

Gibbs made a face.

"What kind of question is that?" he asked, looking annoyed. He looked around in disbelief, playing off the question well. "I'd be pissed," he said slowly, making Fernandez look ignorant.

A woman in the jury snickered.

Fernandez nodded.

"Naturally. Therefore, it would be plausible to say that, if the Director slept with my client whilst drunk and feared you finding out, she would simply cry 'rape'."

Jenny narrowed her eyes.

"It seems to me that this is merely a case of a guilty hangover—a woman trying to hide an indiscretion from her boyfriend."

Fernandez seemed to be speaking directly to the jury. She turned back to Gibbs and raised her eyebrows, pursing her lips.

"You ever think that, Agent Gibbs?" she asked curiously. "It was hard enough to find any evidence of drugs in her blood, wasn't it?"

Gibbs did not even bat an eyelid. His jaw set, he held the woman's gaze until she flicked her eyes down, hiding her defeat in a blink. Slowly, and dangerously, he spoke:

"He hit her," he said coldly, nodding jerkily at Howard. "You have the evidence. Even if she was just drunk," he mocked, "You don't hit a woman if she's willing. You hit her if you want to keep her down."

"Sounds like you know when to hit a woman, Agent Gibbs," provoked Fernandez. Kaffee roared an objection.

"I've _never_ laid a hand on her," snarled Gibbs, lunging forward a little.

Jenny jumped slightly, her heart lodging in her throat. Her eyes stung. He shouldn't even be subjected to this sort of—ridiculous character bashing. Gibbs was up there solely to be held up to her and paint her as immoral in the eyes of the jury rather than an assaulted female.

After the commotion settled down, Fernandez had stepped back, smarting from a sharp reprimand from the judge.

"You've got a temper, Agent Gibbs," she said pointedly. "If I were the Director, I certainly wouldn't want you to find out I'd cheated," she hissed. The implication of her statement was clear.

"It's a damn good thing she's not that deceitful, then," Gibbs growled sharply.

Someone in the jury let out a breath; another snickered. Jenny managed a faint smirk; Fernandez turned sour again.

"The dysfunction of this agency is appalling," she said nastily. "The more I question, the more reason I find to be skeptical of the Director's claims. Agent Gibbs, would you like to tell the court how you are so sure your girl wasn't steppin' out on you?" Fernandez mocked heartlessly.

This time, Gibbs looked at her. She widened her eyes slightly. Fernandez snapped around—and Jenny realized what he was doing. He was looking at her right eye. He knew she wasn't lying—even when she was unsure—because he knew her tell. Ever so slightly, she put on a very helpless face and shook her head slowly back and forth.

Gibbs sat back, folding his arms. He looked as untouchable as the Berlin Wall.

The jury watched the exchange intently.

"She wasn't," Gibbs said confidently. "She's got a tell."

Fernandez glared around, confused by what had just happened.

Grasping at straws, Fernandez shot forward, losing a little cool—and with it, a little credibility.

"And how do we know you aren't involved in this cover-up?"

Gibbs' face was blank. He grit his teeth and gave the woman a patronizing look.

"Plead the fifth," he said cynically—but something in the way he said it made her suggestion sound so preposterous that it worked in their favor.

* * *

><p>There was to be a short recess before the defense called their last witness—Howard—and Kaffee was conferring with his assistant. Jenny sat in her place still, unsure if there was enough time to fetch a cup of coffee—primarily because she had spent ten minutes trying to figure out if she had time instead of just getting some damn coffee.<p>

She was still thinking in circles about the coffee when a Styrofoam cup of it appeared in front of her face—and thus convinced her of her almighty cognitive powers.

Blinking that curious thought away, she looked around, and took the cup.

"Bad coffee," Gibbs said, sitting down next to her.

She shrugged, took a sip, and made a face—then she nodded, agreeing with his assessment.

He folded his hands between his knees, watching her. She looked ahead, tilting her head to the side.

"What?" she asked after a moment, one side of her mouth quirking up.

"You look tired as hell, Jen," he said.

"You are such a gentlemen."

He laughed quietly. Hart leaned back and shot him a suspicious look. He lowered his voice again and leaned forward, looking at her with somewhat narrowed eyes. She took another sip of the coffee, glancing over as Peterson waked back down to the front row, a sort of signal that court would be resuming soon.

"Go back to work, Jethro," Jenny said coolly.

He shook his head stubbornly and leaned back.

"Not leavin', Jen."

"People will talk," she murmured against the rim of the cup.

He made a face.

"What are they gonna say? That we're sleepin' together?"

* * *

><p>"Consider the charges that have been laid at your door, Benjamin, I think it's about time we heard your side of the story."<p>

"I'd sure like to tell it," Benjamin Howard's first words to the court were polite and unthreatening as he answered his lawyer's question. He didn't smile—but he managed to look like he was smiling.

Fernandez nodded encouragingly.

"What really happened that night?" she asked.

"Hadn't been special, really. Like any other night at the bar—'cept sometime around six she walked in," Howard gestured at Jenny. "Business suit, uptight hair-do, lookin' pretty annoyed with someone—I'd seen her in the news before, but when she sat down I realized it was Jennifer."

Jenny flinched at the use of her whole name.

"You knew the Director?" Fernandez feigned surprise.

"Nah, not the _Director_. I knew Jennifer Shepard from high school, back at Fort Campbell in Tennessee. My Dad reported to her Dad."

"Naturally, you recognized her, and wanted to reconnect."

"Of course," Howard agreed with a shrug. "So I said hello all friendly-like when she sat down, asked her how she'd been in 'bout twenty years—and she just looked right through me. As if she didn't see me, didn't give a damn—and ordered a drink. Ignored me," he shook his head in annoyance and huffed. "Kinda like high school, I guess."

Jenny tilted her head. She watched him, unblinking. Maybe he would look back at her and stop coming up with such bullshit. No—they hadn't been best friends, and she had always been very introverted—but she had never ignored him.

"What was your relationship with Director Shepard while at Fort Campbell?"

"She helped me with schoolwork during study hall," he answered. "She wasn't really into it. She was, uh," Howard paused, feigning embarrassment. "She was sorta busy with other guys."

"What do you mean?" asked Fernandez.

"She was kinda promiscuous."

"Objection," interrupted Kaffee coldly.

"Sustained," said the judge. She looked at Fernandez narrowly. "In no way are the Director's past personal exploits relevant to this case."

Fernandez nodded, slipping in a final remark.

"I simply thought some background on the director's moral character might be appropriate," she offered in an underhanded way before continuing. "Back to the present then. What was the Director's temperament that night?"

"She was distracted. Looked upset. Looked kinda pissed, too. Watched the news and drank all night."

"How much alcohol did the Director consume?"

"Truth be told, I lost track. It was at least seven tequila shots—couple novelty shots, maybe a mixed drink."

"So she was considerably drunk?"

"Hell yeah," agreed Howard, laughing a little. "I took her keys, but at closing time she fought me about letting me take her home, so I walked to her car—was gonna let her sleep it off there."

Fernandez nodded.

"What happened then?"

"Well, uh, she got a little handsy—you know, frisky. And I was bein' nice, playin' it off but she was pretty serious—wouldn't take no for an answer, tried to drag me in the car with her," Howard broke off, shooting Jenny a look.

He had fake-uncomfortable written all over his face.

She narrowed her eyes, in real discomfort, at him.

"Go on, Benjamin," coaxed Fernandez.

"Hey, it might not be the gentlemen thing to do but she was pretty into it, so, you know—"

"We know what?"

"We had sex."

"You had sex," repeated Fernandez. "Okay. Was the Director conscious?"

"Yes."

"Did she fight you?"

"No."

"So it was consensual?"

"Yes," Howard said shortly. "I don't have to force women to have sex with me. I can't help it if they regret it in the morning."

Again he was looking at Jenny. She felt Jethro tense up next to her, probably about to lose his cool. She tapped the coffee cup trapped between her thighs and looked at him, her face a little pale. She didn't like hearing her life laid bare like this.

"Benjamin," asked Fernandez nicely. "Did you spike the Director's drink?"

"Absolutely not," answered Howard.

He looked down. He looked to the left. Jenny focused on him when he looked back up.

Fernandez smiled and looked at Kaffee.

"Your witness," she said.

* * *

><p>She wondered if she was ever going to stop feeling sick.<p>

She had been watching Kaffee cross-examine Howard for what felt like an hour; he was dancing around questions, tricking Howard into lies—discussing the wiped tapes, the changing story about the keys, the picture of her in the yearbook, etc.

He had Howard pissed, and Kaffee was really worked up now—and Jethro, from what she could tell by his knee resting against hers, was about angry enough to throttle Howard where he stood.

Kaffee was patronizing. He was busy looking at photos.

"I just don't see the consent here, Howard," he said for the fifth time. He clicked his tongue and held up photos. "Ring scratches on the inner thighs. A fist-mark bruise below her eye, impression marks on her hips, minor tearing," he shook his head again, clicking his tongue in that irritating, superior way. "And there's blood, something that goes hand-in-hand with violence—"

"Hey, buddy," Howard said shortly. "Sometimes sex gets _rough_. Maybe she likes it that way."

Jethro rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"Well," Kaffee said, flicking through the papers he was using so well and pulling one out. He shook his head. "Well, I figure you probably found it hard to ask how she liked it since she was so out of it—you know, due to all the Flunitrazepam in her system."

Kaffee held out the official paper that pinpointed the drug.

Howard shook his head in annoyance, not saying anything.

"Okay, no sassy comeback for that one," said Kaffee gleefully. "You know, Ben, you've got us wanting to believe you're a gentleman kinda guy, but according to your story you took advantage of an inebriated woman—one you claim you knew and liked in your teenage years," Kaffee mumbled to himself and glanced at the jury. "One of you kind people want to define 'gentleman' for me, see if it involves sexual assault?"

"I didn't assault her!" Howard burst out. "There's barely a case against me!"

"There's your DNA," snapped Kaffee. "And not just semen—skin particles, from under her nails, implying defensive wounds."

Howard scowled.

"All a woman's gotta do is cry 'rape' and a guy's got no chance."

"Maybe that's true," Kaffee agreed. "But that isn't the case here—you raped the Director of a Federal Agency, all because you couldn't get a little tail in high school."

Howard's eyes bulged.

He spluttered.

"That's it, isn't it, Ben?" asked Kaffee in mock sympathy. "You say she was promiscuous, but she wasn't with you—you never got to sleep with Jenny Shepard, did you? And then when she didn't recognize you, you decided you were going to take what you wanted."

Howard swiveled to his lawyer.

"I thought her past was off limits!" he whined, without realizing he was giving credit to the story.

Kaffee pounced.

"Did I hit too close to home there, Howard?"

"Objection," busted in Fernandez.

"We're talking about the _present_," reprimanded the judge sharply, pointing her gavel at Kaffee.

"Right, right," remembered Kaffee. "The present time, when Ben here committed rape."

"I didn't rape—"

"I'm inclined to disagree," Kaffee interrupted loudly. "We've got defensive evidence from the Director. A paper that proves she was drugged and legally unable to consent. We've got photographic proof of graphic assault, we've got DNA from about three different places, we've got motive, and we've got that little detail about you erasing some incriminating tapes—in other words, we've got _you_, Mr. Howard."

"You don't have anything," Howard snapped back, leaning forward and baring his teeth in a frustrated sort of snarl. "But you go ahead and put me in jail, you believe whatever the hell that privileged _bitch_ says—her Colonel Daddy never had her take responsibility for her actions, so why the fuck should her government?"

Kaffee let Howard's bitter, out of control words and language sink in to the jury for a moment.

In a very low, very careful voice, Jenny turned her head and, with one eye on the white knuckle he was clenching on her knee, she said:

"You're going to lose it," she knew him, and she could tell. "Go back to the office," she ordered. "It isn't a suggestion."

He stood up abruptly and walked out, garnering a few looks from a few jury members, and an intent one from Agent Peterson.

Jenny settled back to watching as Fernandez jumped back up to get her client out of hot water.

She watched, but she let her mind wander and be consumed by stress—she checked her watch, fighting down the nausea she had been feeling all day—the Czech Republic Feeling. She was getting dangerously close to being tardy for her meeting with SecNav.

* * *

><p>Both DiNozzo and McGee looked away from the dead sailor displayed on the big screen when they heard the elevator. It was almost funny, how coordinated their curious looks were—the two men had been waiting all day in the weird Gibbs, Ziva, and Jenny-less atmosphere for some sort of gossip—<p>

-and here it walked in, shape of: Israeli Ninja Chick.

"Ziva!" greeted McGee warmly.

She nodded cordially to them.

"How is it?" DiNozzo asked seriously, wasting no time. Each individual knew he referred to the trial—he had kept the television muted all day and only watched silent images; he wanted to hear the details from Ziva.

"It seems to be a stalemate," she said with a shrug. "Each time one team scores, the other scores. Like an irritating futbol game."

McGee sighed.

"I guess that's good."

DiNozzo glared at him.

"Well, it's not _bad_!" he yelped defensively, rolling his eyes at Tony.

Ziva stood behind her desk and nodded at the screen.

"Who is this?" she asked, brow furrowing, dispensing quickly with trial talk.

"Case we caught while you and Gibbs were gone," DiNozzo said, turning back to the screen. "Where is Gibbs? You talk to him?"

She shook her head slightly.

"I did not," she said in a low voice. "He was otherwise occupied. I remained in the back."

Tony nodded this time. He threw a look at McGee.

"McGee!" he snapped. "Fill Ziva in on the new case."

"Why don't you do it?" retorted McGee, catching the clicker Tony threw at him with mild surprise. He glared at his friend-slash-tormentor. Tony shrugged lazily and swaggered towards Gibbs' desk.

"Gibbs isn't here. I'm in charge. Means I get to be Gibbs and do nothing."

Having walked into the bullpen at that moment, Gibbs' open palm collided with the back of Tony's skull; DiNozzo gave a whimpering yelp. McGee snickered.

Gibbs acknowledged Ziva with a nod and put his things up in his desk, keeping one eye on the big screen.

"Someone talk," he said, business-like.

"Petty Officer Derek Mumford," said Tony immediately, jumping almost to attention.

"He was found on one of the banks of the Anacostia, Boss…"

He was listening to McGee, but the young agent's voice became a dull murmur when Gibbs caught sight of SecNav stepping off the elevator—and he looked like he meant business.

* * *

><p>Jenny stared at Cynthia, expressionless. She pursed her lips and tilted her head, her brows knitting in disbelief.<p>

"He attempted to get into my office?"

Cynthia nodded vigorously.

"He claimed he needed to use it to do work while he was away from Los Angeles," the young assistant answered, frowning.

Jenny put a hand on her hip and chewed the inside of her lip, her eyes narrowing.

"Vance has no reason to be here," she murmured, almost to herself. She focused on Cynthia, as if bouncing ideas off of her. "The L.A. office is drowning in budgetary problems and has a suit against an agent, and he's _here_?"

Cynthia lifted her shoulders, her eyes empty of answers.

"He was ordered here by SecNav, ma'am," she said. "He has a meeting with him directly after you."

Jenny turned slightly pale. She removed her hand from her hip and leaned forward, bracing it on the edge of Cynthia's desk. She spent a moment looking at her helpful, caring assistant and took a deep breath.

"Cynthia," she said quietly. "Cancel my appointments."

Cynthia nodded, sitting down and picking up a phone.

"Which ones?" she asked politely.

"All of them," Jenny answered in a hollow tone.

She stood straight and turned, a political, warm smile on her face, as the Secretary of the Navy walked into the outer office.

"Director," he greeted.

She nodded to him curtly; their meeting began.

* * *

><p>She had handled a brief issue in MTAC after returning to work from the trial—it had happened so quickly she hadn't even been in her office yet, and now she tensely welcomed the SecNav in, offering him a seat.<p>

He shook his head in the negative, setting a briefcase down in the chair instead and turning towards her as she moved around her desk.

"How is the trial going?" he asked cordially.

"You've heard reports," she answered neutrally.

"No much, to tell the truth," he retorted. "The media is much more interested in your affair with Agent Gibbs," he said curtly. "As are my superiors."

"I can't possibly see what concern your superiors have for my personal life."

"It is no longer your personal life, Director Shepard, and you damn well know it," snapped Jarvis, his brow darkening. "You exercised infallible discretion up until this point and I would have gladly turned a blind eye—but the media attention has become detrimental to a point of irreconcilability."

"Sir, I am not responsible for the American media's tendency to make mountains out of molehills," Jenny responded coldly.

"This is a much bigger deal than you seem to think it is," he said levelly.

"Mr. Secretary, I understand the level of bad exposure this issue has afforded NCIS," she answered pointedly. "However, the relationship between myself and Agent Gibbs never once affected my performance in this position nor did his record suffer any hit due to me. The problem is that the media is mingling a personal affair with a legal one, and the two are separate, irrelevant entities—"

"Separate?" burst in SecNav. "Irrelevant? Director, there is a very good chance you will lose this case and thus be remembered as a woman who cried wolf!" His eyes bulged angrily and his face reddened. "This bad press is more than damaging to image—are you aware that two agents in Norfolk had trouble interviewing a _bystander_ two days ago?"

"And what does their incompetence have to do with me, sir?" asked Jenny icily.

"Their difficulties were not due to incompetence," snapped Jarvis. "The person of interest refused to speak with NCIS for fear he would be falsely accused on trumped up charges _as the Director has shown is acceptable!"_

Jenny glared at him, holding the stare firmly. She refused to back down. While she glared at him, she tried to internally combat the Czech Republic Bad Feeling.

"It's gotten out of hand, Jenny," said Jarvis, deflating a little. "Our efficiency has been affected, we're facing budget cuts and inquires and there's talk of dredging up the Grenouille incident again," he rubbed his forehead and adjusted his coat, eyeing her warily. "This chaos is not desirable—it isn't going to be accepted."

Jenny narrowed her eyes slightly.

"I think we'd both like you to get this over with, Clay," she said formally.

He set his jaw and shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll give you twenty-four hours to tender your resignation, Jenny."

She drew herself up and grit her teeth.

* * *

><p>He was back to working on the boat.<p>

Back to working on the boat when he heard the heels clicking on the linoleum upstairs, and then in the laundry room, and then slowly and carefully down to the basement stair landing. He looked up at the sound of jingling keys, furrowing his brow as she rested her hand, with keys in it, on the banister.

"You drive yourself?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Where's Peterson?" he growled, bristling.

She just smirked, and took a few more steps.

But the smirk did not reach her dull green eyes.

She was wearing the same outfit from court, and from work—the grey on grey, with touches of violet and emerald. The only change was her loose hair; it had been pulled back in a neat, austere ponytail while she was in business mode, and now it was down and tangled, as if she had ruffled her hands through it trying to erase the wave her elastic had made in it.

He was somewhat surprised to see her. He had thought they were on bad terms again. He looked away from her and inspected a rib of the boat he'd been sanding.

"How'd your meeting with SecNav go?" he drawled, putting sarcastic emphasis on Jarvis' title.

Jenny cleared her throat.

"Jarvis offered me until six p.m. tomorrow to tender my resignation," she said coolly.

His eyebrows going up slowly, Gibbs leaned back, pausing. His arms outstretched, holding the sander to the boat, he eyed her intently, searching her eyes for some indication of her answer.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"I told him precisely where he could shove that _generous_ offer," she answered.

Gibbs snorted mockingly and smirked a little, narrowing his eyes.

"What'd he say?" he asked, amused.

"He fired me."

Gibbs fumbled the sander. He dropped it, staring at her. He looked at the keys in her hand, and they made sense.

She stared back, her expression guarded; matter-of-fact.

"He—" started Gibbs.

"Fired me," repeated Jenny curtly. She held up the keys and dropped them unceremoniously on the basement floor. "Peterson provides security to the Director of NCIS, which is no longer my title."

He turned towards her fully, a sort of protective rage consuming him—reflected dark blue in his usually light icy eyes.

"He _fired_ you?" Gibbs growled, still glaring in disbelief.

"He is doing me the courtesy of waiting until the verdict is announced tomorrow to make the decision public," she said sarcastically.

Seeing how angry he became on her behalf made her forget she was supposed to be handling this like a rational adult. It hit her very heavily, as she stood on the landing in front of him, that she had lost her job. She had lost the only thing in her life that she put her complete and utter trust in to be there.

"Jen," Jethro said, his voice rising—sounding far away. "Jen, you look like you're gonna pass out," he said, his voice ringing loudly in her ears. She heard his footsteps approaching, so she felt like it was okay to sit down—maybe that would assuage the light-headed dizziness that suddenly plagued her.

Apparently, she was uncoordinated in her sitting down, because she winced as she scuffed her ankle falling hard on the first step, and Jethro grabbed her arm tightly, preventing her from hitting too hard.

"Jesus. Jenny," he said sharply, bending over her. He propped one foot on the step beside her and leaned forward on his knee, loosening his grip on her arm.

"Take a deep breath," he said gruffly.

"I lost my job," she said, eyes wide.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Breathe," he ordered again. "Jen, your lips are blue," he snapped aggressively—and it was the rare anxiety in his voice that induced her to snap to and gasp for air.

She breathed in, strangled, hoarse—sounding panicked, the jerky movements of her shoulders distracting him. He thought she might be having a panic attack; the situation certainly justified it if she was. He had never once seen her look so completely blind-sided by something, not even when she had shot the wrong person in Paris.

Jenny hunched forward, pushing her hair back from her face furiously when gravity pulled it forward like a curtain. She bit her lip violently, parted her lips, and sobbed—and slapped her palm over her mouth to try and contain it.

Slowly, he moved his leg and then crouched down in front of her, resting his hands on her kneecaps; he squeezed gently. She wouldn't look at him. She shook her head back and forth a little, eyes closed tightly.

She finally gave up with an annoyed, frustrated groan and leaned forward, folding her arms and burying her head in them on her knees. Her body shook with sobs, tears he understood came from fear and hatred and bitterness.

He pulled his hand from her knee and frowned. He stroked the back of her head.

After a few minutes of just listening to her cry, he stood up and went for his store of alcohol, loudly dumping out a jar of nuts and bolts and breaking the seal on a new bottle of the best Kentucky bourbon. He poured a hell of an amount and walked it over to her.

Gibbs nudged her.

"Take the edge off," he offered solemnly.

She looked up, her eyes bloodshot and irritated, her lip a little swollen. She turned her head away, swallowing hard.

"I don't want it," she said severely. She held her wrist to her nose, and fluttered her eyelashes. "I never want to drink again," she moaned, drawing her shoulders around herself protectively.

He sat the Mason jar down next to her, eyebrows going up a little.

"Little rash, Jen," he said carefully.

"It isn't," she protested coldly. "Drinking got me into this," she hissed. "I'm not touching it. I'm not touching it ever again."

He narrowed his eyes, unsure whether to take her seriously.

"You think Howard had _nothing_ to do with it?" growled Gibbs. "It wasn't the alcohol, he drugged you!"

"I should never have been that drunk!" she said shrilly, turning her eyes on him. She sucked in a breath, sniffling. "This never would have happened if you—if I were—god dammit," she swore, bowing her head again.

Her words faded and she started crying heavily again. Gibbs inched closer, sitting on a step lower than her. He slipped his arm over her thighs and hugged her legs against his ribs, watching her closely.

"I lost my _job_," she said again, in completely disbelief—as if she really couldn't come to terms with it. She lifted her head and looked up, her face close to his. Her lips were shaking. "I don't know how to live without my job—I don't do _anything_ but that job! It's everything, I lost—I don't _have_ anything else," she said weakly.

Her words, and her expression, was full of distaste at what she was saying; she looked as if she despised the pitiful nature of the reality or the realization—whichever she was struggling with in her mind.

He tilted his head at her seriously, rubbing the side of her calf.

"You got me," he told her gruffly, offering that up.

She pursed her lips, and looked like she was comforted for a moment—he swore she almost smiled—and then her eyes flashed stormily and she pulled away from him as if she'd been burned, her muscles going rigid. She shook her head and glared at him.

"No, I don't," she retorted vehemently, standing up and turning on him. "I've never _had_ you," she threw out, her face turning white and scared again. "The only woman who has _ever_ had you is Shannon."

The words silenced everything in the room. They seemed to simultaneously break every boundary she and Gibbs had ever left untouched out of respect; she said it, finally, and it was like the Berlin wall coming down: this was going to be their defining moment.

She had never seen him look so concurrently angry and…and _heartbroken_ all in the same moment.

Then his jaw hardened and his expression became a cold, unreadable mask.

"Don't start this, Jen," he said coldly, standing in front of the stairs, immoveable like marble.

"It's already started," she snapped. "Why don't we finish it?" she asked forwardly, storming away and then turning back around. "Right now," she lashed out.

"Finish _what_?" he barked, irritated. "The same old fight?"

"_Yes_, Jethro, the _same_ old god damn _fight_," she mocked heatedly. "How am I supposed to trust that you're there for me when you can't even talk about them? That Skaric case—that _poor_ little _girl_—it was eating you alive and you were nothing short of cruel to me when I tried to help!"

"It was just a case, Jen," he growled.

"No," she snapped coldly. "It wasn't. And you pushed me away. You expect me to believe you can be there for me and you won't let me be there for you. You don't need me. I don't even know if you want me, Jethro, because you never _say_ anything. You never—"

"Isn't like you to be so insecure," he snapped provocatively.

She flinched a little, as if someone had swung a fist too close to her face. Holding her ground, she swallowed hard and leapt back at him with words.

"I trust you not to cheat on me," she growled. "And I trust you to have my back but I don't—I don't trust you to always be there and I _can't_. It doesn't feel like you commit, it doesn't feel like I'm important to you."

"_You_ can't trust _me_ to be there?" he barked, eyes narrowing. He pointed at her accusingly. "You're the one who leaves. You're a god damn pro at it."

"You told me to get out," she snarled, gritting her teeth and feeling as if she were repeating an argument. "You showed me exactly how much you _cared_ about me—you said I could 'live with never hearing those words out of your mouth, or I could walk out the door'!"

"I'm here now, Jen," he pointed out angrily. "I sat next to you in court. You're using Sha—" he paused, swallowing. "You're using Shannon as a scapegoat."

"And you're using her as an excuse to never let me in," she said in a deadly tone.

He bristled.

"What do you want from me, Jen?" he asked forcefully, exasperated.

He knew, but he couldn't—he didn't even know if it was the fact that he couldn't say the words or didn't want to say the words or if it was now just a battle of the wills: she wanted to hear him say he loved her, and he was never going to go there.

"I just want to hear you say it, Jethro!" she shouted, her voice breaking. "I don't give a damn if it's just three stupid words or even that I already know—I just want to hear your _voice_!"

She glared at him, breathing heavily, and he glared right back, standing rigidly in the same place.

She waited in a moment that felt like glass waiting to break—and she waited for it to shatter, without knowing what would be the cause. Would he say it? Or would—would she—

She took off, storming forward to race up his stairs. She brushed past him roughly, trying to get past him, but he grabbed her arm and growled a low, authoritative '_No'_ at her, blocking her escape. She fought; kicked over the mason jar of bourbon they had abandoned, and found herself pushed up against the cold, concrete basement wall, right next to the bottom step—with one foot halfway perched on it.

He didn't just use his hands to pin her, he used his whole body. She could feel his knees, his thighs, his hips, and his chest—his face was inches from hers and she finally, _finally_ saw some of the fear of loss she felt reflected in his eyes.

"Why do you need to hear it?" he asked huskily, blue boring into green. "Why, Jen?" he demanded.

She moved her lips soundlessly, unable to answer him. She fell still, trapped—in more ways than just physically. She remembered what she had told Allison this morning—but that confidence had been shattered when SecNav fired her. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.

"You were about to leave," he said aggressively. "Again," he drove the point home. "It doesn't matter what I say if I can't trust you to stay _put_."

It was like some kind of ironic, ridiculous, excruciating vicious circle. They had been dangerously close in Paris, but he had never indicated commitment, and she was ambitious—so she left, and there was bad blood. He took her back in DC—he indicated forgiveness, and she should have known he was secure, but he didn't say anything; she left again—and he kept being silent and she kept leaving, and now she saw that he was just as reluctant to trust his words to her when he spent half their relationship watching her walk away.

"I don't make you say it," he growled at her.

"You don't have to," she bit back shakily, narrowing her eyes.

He nodded once, _pointedly_. No one should make anyone say it. It took away the meaning when there was manipulation behind the expression. She parted her lips, breathing shallowly. The way he was looking at her was really bothering her. He was reminding her of every _single_ time he had been there for her—even when she didn't deserve it.

"You have to give me something," she said quietly, a plea creeping into her voice.

He looked angry.

"Jen," he growled. "I've already given you everything," he grit his teeth, grinding the words out as if it were a physical exertion. "You need proof?" he asked harshly. He relaxed a little and she let out a rush of breath, surprised she'd been holding it.

"Don't move," he ordered, stepping away from her and stalking over to the workbench. He picked up the permanent pen he marked the boat with and a crumpled, torn piece of paper and came back to her, leaning up against her again.

He raised his arms over her head and began to write hastily. She found herself staring at his neck, watching his pulse beat; agitated and fast. She raised her eyes, looked at his chin, and saw his eyelashes twitch slightly as he narrowed his eyes at the paper.

He put the pen in his mouth, capped it, and tossed it down, presenting her with the piece of paper.

Her mouth opened soundlessly. She stared at the words, and his signature, and slumped back against the wall with nowhere to go.

"Use it as a bookmark or somethin'," he said intensely, placing the scrap paper in her hand. "Best I can do."

There it was, sort of, in her hands—what he forgot to say.

She closed it in her hand and slipped it into her pocket, resting her arm across her lower abdomen protectively.

"Can I stay here tonight?" she asked under her breath, her voice shaking again.

The fight just rushed out of her.

She didn't want to go home. Home reminded her of work—and there were reporters at her house.

"Jen," he said seriously, looking her dead in the eye. "You really need me to answer that?"

She shook her head. He was up against her again, holding her against the cold wall with his body—but the wall felt hot now, because she'd been plastered against it so long. He moved his hands behind her and pulled her forward, hugging her firmly. Gibbs pressed his lips just below her ear, his fingers on her neck sending chills down her spine.

Damn, she was a mess. Losing her job was really going to do a number on her—he could kill SecNav. There wasn't any reason to fire Jenny. There wasn't any _reason_ for Gibbs to have to comfort her because of that political bastard.

Jenny leaned back, wriggling a little for him to relax his arms. She kissed him, her eyes wide-open, meeting his gaze. He grabbed the back of her head, surprised, and kissed back, unable to exercise much control while she was sticking her tongue in his mouth and looking at him like that.

He pressed her back further into the wall, if that were possible, and she tilted her head back, breaking the kiss, and let out a breath, wincing. He drew his lips over her jaw and down her neck, gripping her shoulder; he pushed some of her blouse out of the way and bit the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder.

Jenny let her head rest against the wall, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. She shifted, trying to get her heel completely on the bottom step. He nudged her legs apart and stepped closer, reaching over to touch her slightly lifted leg. He ran his hand up the inside of her thigh, tracing her inseam.

He stepped back and reached up to her oxford, calmly unbuttoning the shirt, un-tucking it, and pushing it off. She caught it before it hit the floor and hung it on the banister; he rolled his eyes.

She slipped out of her heels and then whipped off her emerald camisole, giving no care as she dropped that on the floor.

He unbuttoned her slacks for her and peeled them away from her hips, sliding his hands in the back and inching them down slowly that way. She undid his belt while he played around and dropped it on the landing.

Hot, and fairly bothered, he kissed her again, urgently, pressing her once more back into the wall. She grunted, wincing again, feeling the bruises building on her spine and tailbone. Pushing him gently with her palms, she extricated herself and stepped out of her slacks—and she walked up his basement stairs, barefoot and in her underwear.

He was quick to follow; catching up to her in the laundry room, he turned her around and pulled her against him with his arms around her waist, kissing her with lips-and-teeth, biting at her lower lip as he pushed her towards the couch.

It was a more economical place for this sort of thing, considering his bed was cover-less and had boxes placed all over it.

Her knees hit the back of the couch and she collapsed, sitting in front of him. She made quick work of his pants, yanking them down his legs. Teasing, glancing up at him once in a minute, she traced the lines of his abdominal muscles and pressing kisses just precariously beneath his navel.

He bit back a groan, plunging his hand into her hair and holding her head close to him, almost for fear of losing the privilege. She pressed her knees gently to his and leaned back, eyeing him intimately. She lifted a hand away from him and placed it at her neck, drifting slowly—tantalizing—down between her breasts and then onto her stomach, where she paused for a brief moment, and then moved her hand under her panties.

He watched her for a minute; she lifted her foot and braced it against his thigh, tilting her head back and opening her mouth. Gibbs dropped to his knees, thrusting her leg over his shoulder, and pushed her hand away, grabbing her hips and pulling her towards him. She had an advantage, sitting while he knelt, and he was between her legs, chest pressed into her, and she had him thinking which lips he wanted to kiss.

He squeezed her knees and lowered his mouth to her inner thigh, holding her hand tightly to her knee so she couldn't interfere.

Baring his teeth a little playfully, he nipped the edge of her panties and dragged them down, assisting the motion with his hands when she made him work for it. He put them on the coffee table and wrapped a hand firmly around her ankle, yanking her forward.

She made a quiet noise in the back of her throat and threw her head back, tugging her hand away from his. He held tight, though, and pressed his mouth against her—and there wasn't anything hesitant or easy about it; he knew what she liked.

She yanked her hand away from him and twisted under his ministrations, covering her mouth; alternately muffling herself and biting her index finger while she moaned around it. He held her leg still, but she pushed against his thigh with her other foot, curling her toes.

He worked her hard with his tongue, left no place untouched, blew on her to tease, left her tense and shaking. He skated his hand up her leg and over her thigh to her stomach so quickly it made her yelp; the sensation was light and fluffy; and when he splayed his palm over her abdomen and flicked his tongue inside her, she flung her hand out to grip his hair tightly.

"Oh my god Jethro, I'm going to come," she gasped, breaking the silence—the first thing she'd said to him since they lay everything out, defined their rocky relationship, and backed down from their fight.

And it really did a number on him to hear her say it.

She dug her heel into his shoulder and arched her back, her lip bitten in concentration. True to her word, she let out a strangled, gasping cry when she did and relaxed, her tight grip in his hair loosening.

Gibbs bent leg, lifting her knee off his shoulder and kissing her there gently. He crawled up over her, nudging her to where he wanted her—on her back, underneath him, pressed into the cushions.

She pulled his shirt off, reaching behind her to use it as a pillow for her neck, and her hands flew to his boxer-briefs; she made no effort to avoid brazenly touching him as she indicated that she wanted them off.

Her hands were still shaking, and she pressed her palms to his chest, touching all the hard muscles of his abdomen and biceps, until she reached his groin. He groaned at her first firm, familiar touch, lowering his mouth to her shoulder, where he used his teeth to move the strap of her bra away.

He was fighting with her bra with one hand and reaching between them to move her legs with the other, abandoning, to a certain extent, finesse. She moved her head to the right and looked right at him as he pushed her knee up and thrust into her—and Jenny tossed her head back and swore—in a good way—the word escaping her lips in relief and pleasure:

"_Fuck_."

He attacked her neck with his lips, kissing her carotid artery as he moved—hard, rough, breath-taking movements that had her gasping so hard she wasn't sure she was actually breathing. He groaned and gripped the underside of her thigh, his hand digging into her, marking her.

Jenny moved the leg not in his grip off the couch and pushed herself into more of a sitting position with her arms, leaning back against the armrest. He grunted, catching his breath in his throat, surprised by the movement—she was further away, and he had to thrust harder to make up for it; he hung his head to her shoulder, breathing heavily, remaining still.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage; she pressed her palm to his neck, her thumb stroking his jaw. She pulled his head forward and kissed him, murmuring indecipherable words against his lips. He held her hips, pulling her against him, and thrust into her again; she moved a hand down her chest again, touching herself.

He broke the kiss to breathe, pushing his forehead against hers a little too hard, so she turned her head slightly to the side. She dug her nails gently into his neck and opened her mouth, crying out in short, soft intervals.

Jethro thrust against her hard, elicited a shock of pain that spun through her as her back dug into the uncomfortable armrest, and he shuddered, his hips pressed firm against hers. Jenny bit her lip and gripped his shoulder, loosening up and laying back.

Entangling her hand between his lower abdomen and hers, she jerked her hand a few times until she had finished what he started and closed her eyes, sinking back languidly, with her lips still parted.

He was breathing huskily against her shoulder, his grip slowly relaxing on her hips as he eased off the rush of adrenaline and endorphins. It was almost impossible to believe they'd had a fight that nearly destroyed their relationship not even an hour ago.

Jethro lifted his head and looked at her; her sated eyes, flushed cheeks, damp, sweaty hair that curled around her cheeks—tangled, and messy. He didn't understand why he had let her walk away so many times.

She moved her head and winced, pushing at him gently with her hands. He shifted his weight off of her; she made a quiet, blissed noise in the back of her throat that drove him mad, and moved on top of him—the couch was too small for anything else.

Jenny pressed her back to the couch, lying as lightly as possible on his chest, curled between his side and the cushions. She laid her head on his shoulder, her bra strap, mangled a little from his biting, lolling lazily halfway down her forearm.

He put his arm up over his head, remaining quiet. It felt like they had said it all. There was even less to be said than earlier.

She turned her head close to his neck and bit her lip.

"I have to clean out my desk in the morning," she said faintly, her voice a defeated mumble.

He pulled the arm down from behind his head and wrapped it around her—and he hugged her.

He understood why she might need to be reassured about him, after having everything yanked out from under her so rapidly.

* * *

><p><em>-Winding down. Two chapters left; finale, and then the epilogue.<br>-alexandra_


	9. Chapter 9

**__**_A/N: It's always a sad day when there is no new NCIS. I hope all of my American readers enjoyed a family-filled, lively Thanksgiving-Christmas Holidays are not far off! I know I only have 10 school days left in my semester and then I'm gloriously Tennessee bound. :)_

* * *

><p><strong><em>9<em>**

It occurred to him that a nice gesture would be to make Jenny breakfast. She had always liked that before, and he knew she would probably wake up and feel worse when she suddenly remembered and everything hit her like a ton of bricks.

But he didn't have any food in the house, so he started a pot of coffee.

Damn, it was early. Some internal clock had woken him up from the best sleep he'd had in weeks, telling him to get his ass on the move. He knew why; if she had to clean out her desk today, she needed to do it in a dignified way—that meant he needed to get her home and let her change clothes.

God forbid she show up in the same clothing as she had the day before.

He was watching the coffee brew in a blank, cliché sort of way when she stumbled sleepily into the kitchen in his wrinkled shirt.

He glanced at her and nudged a coffee mug, indicating that it was hers. She dragged her feet over and looked into it balefully.

"It's empty."

"Hold your horses," he said, pointing at the brewing coffee.

She rubbed her head.

"It's early," she said hoarsely, peering around. The sun wasn't even up yet.

"You have to go home," he said.

She looked up at him and lifted a brow.

"You want me to duck out before your wife gets home?" she asked snarkily.

He glared at her.

"Can't wear the same clothes, Jen," he reminded her. "You _want_ to give the media another reason?"

She stopped looking amused by herself instantly, and nodded a little, tapping her nail against the rim of the empty mug. She reached up and rubbed her face a little roughly, pushing her hair behind her ears. Then she leaned forward on the counter, pale, looking like she had a _hell_ of a hangover—but it was just the remembrance that she had lost her job.

Jenny groaned quietly.

"I'm unemployed," she groused distastefully.

He reached over and rubbed the back of her neck, glancing around his kitchen. He nudged her knee with his and when she looked at him he gave her a smirk.

"I could use a housekeeper," he joked seriously.

Her mouth dropped open and she leapt at him, attacking him with her fist, first with a protest of mock outrage and then with a laugh that—for some reason—made her throw her head back and lean against him, _really_ letting herself laugh.

He snorted, glad the tease had gone over well.

She tilted her head.

"What's the starting salary?"

He lifted a brow at her suggestively. Shaking her head, Jenny drew herself in closer, burrowing into his side and watching the coffee brew. She leaned her head against his chest and folded her arms around herself, a little cold.

She shook her head and gave a lamenting sigh.

"A maid and a sexual plaything, is that what you want of me?"

"Nah, then I'd have asked you to marry me," he quipped.

She raised her eyes heavenward and then, alerted by a beeping, pointed at the coffee maker. It was ready, and she wanted the first cup. He poured it for her and she moved away, pacing around the kitchen, looking for additives for it.

"No sugar or cream, Jen," he said.

She frowned at him and leaned against the sink, crossing her ankles and stretching. His shirt lifted up on her and he followed its path, pouring his own cup. He kept an eye on it to make sure he didn't spill.

She sipped tentatively on the bitter swill and sighed, bowing her head again and reaching up to rub it, as if chasing away a horrendous headache.

"I'm having a Scarlett O'Hara moment," she said dully.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow at her blankly.

"You know, 'where will I go, what will I do?'—that sort of thing," she murmured distastefully.

"Ah, Jen," he said slowly, taking a sip of his own coffee. "We'll figure it out."

It was his use of the word 'we' that kept her from protesting what he said, even though she had a thousand different reasons to be absolutely at a loss for what to do and where to go from here. At least he wasn't telling her he didn't give a damn.

"Are you okay?" he ventured after a minute. "Financially," he clarified, a little uncomfortably.

She blinked, and then made somewhat of a sour face.

"I have a trust fund," she said vaguely. "I've never touched it. I'm fine."

She didn't offer up any more information, so he didn't press her for more.

They sipped coffee in silence, until he straightened up, sat his on the counter, and asked if she was ready to go.

The former Director of NCIS braced herself, and nodded.

* * *

><p>Gibbs rested his hand on her lower back casually, staring at the elevator doors.<p>

"You sure you want to do this?" he muttered.

She nodded firmly.

"Jarvis can have his crafty little politically correct announcement," she said quietly. "I, however, want everyone to watch me walk out. I want it to leak."

Gibbs smirked. Just a little.

The elevator doors opened, and they walked out—followed by neither Peterson, nor any of the other protective agents and, thus, drawing some curious stares. Jenny lifted her chin and headed directly for her office, her keys in her hand.

She was slightly aware of the murmur in the office, but ignored it as she went in, giving a slightly sympathetic look to Cynthia.

The assistant sat at her desk with nothing to do, looking uncertain. There was a box on her desk.

"Do I still work here?" she asked in a small voice.

Jenny approached the woman and leaned across the desk, touching her hand comfortingly.

"Cynthia, you have been so valuable to me," she said sincerely. "You deserve to work with someone who will appreciate your skills. If you feel that's here, I'll make it my last act to fight for your position. If not, I'll have someone find you a better one."

Cynthia bit her lip and stood up. She grabbed a few things and thrust them into her box.

"I can't believe he fired you, Jenny," she said shakily. "He's—" she paused. "He's a bastard," she decided coldly, packing up her things.

Jenny leaned back, feeling a strange sense of humility to see Cynthia so willing to walk out in support of her boss. Gibbs took the keys from Jenny's hand and opened her office door, picking up a few of the boxes sitting on Cynthia's floor.

Cynthia picked up her purse, sniffling slightly, and then her box—she didn't have much.

She pushed her chair away and started to leave.

"Hey," Gibbs said gruffly.

She looked at him, eyebrows going up.

"You just call me, Cynthia," he said seriously. "I'll give you a positive rec," he promised.

She bit her lip.

"Thank you, Agent Gibbs," she said a little hesitantly. They hadn't always gotten along—but this was one of those times when people were just brought together, regardless. He nodded curtly, and Cynthia left—left, to be the first indication to NCIS that a command shake-up was coming.

* * *

><p>DiNozzo stood, watching critically, as Cynthia Summers boarded the elevator, big box in hand, and left the office building, a very shocked look on her usually pleasant face. Looking around slowly, Tony noticed that the rest of the floor was just as confused.<p>

McGee cleared his throat, sitting down slowly.

"Did the Director fire her?" he asked quietly.

"She would not," Ziva answered swiftly, shaking her head emphatically. "Cynthia is Jenny's good friend."

"You think Cynthia quit, then?" asked McGee.

"I do not know," Ziva answered tersely.

"What's going on around here?" DiNozzo asked loudly. "The whole agency goes to hell in a hand basket because it's on the news that Gibbs slept with the Director? Come _on_, people!" he lamented, looking around in annoyance. "You all knew that! Hawkins," Tony accused, pointing at an agent, "You gave me twenty bucks because I guessed which day they'd be late together!"

Swiveling around, Tony pointed at another agent.

"Barker, you lost that one bet a month ago—why are all of you acting like this is a _shock_?" He demanded. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter anymore than it matters that Agent Holly is sleeping with Sydney in accounting or that—" Tony paused, glancing at Ziva.

He then seemed to change his mind.

"You're all acting like she's a different director," he fumed, changing directions and getting defensive. "We don't have to buy our own ammo because of her, and you're all gossiping as much as the media. You're all pretending to be so self-righteous-well you can take that attitude and shove it up your—"

A familiar hand collided with the back of DiNozzo's head and the agent whipped around, grasping the nape of his neck, and found himself face-to-face with Gibbs—and the Director in question.

"Oh hey there, Boss. Lady Boss. Madame Director," he said rapidly, and then cringed.

Gibbs was glaring at him with some sort of appalled interest.

Jenny smirked.

"Jenny," she said calmly.

"Huh?" asked DiNozzo, brow furrowing.

She inclined her head, lifting one shoulder—and then Tony's attention was drawn to the box in her hands.

"You may call me 'Jenny', DiNozzo," she said smoothly. Her head was held very high, her eyes guarded and unreadable. He stared at her, like he had stared at her when she offered him point on the Grenouille operation.

NCIS fell silent; all chattering and murmuring ceased. McGee stood up halfheartedly, his mouth falling open.

Jenny turned to Ziva, holding her trusted friend's gaze steadily.

"Ziva," she said quietly. She swallowed and shook her head. "I am so sorry," she apologized in an undertone, meaning it with every fiber of her being.

Ziva nodded curtly, sitting down stiffly at her desk.

Gibbs cleared his throat and nudged Jenny's shoulder, pushing her towards the elevator. He had two boxes in his hands, and he hadn't said a word. He just watched her, and glared at anyone who looked too curious with his or her glances.

Turning his head rapidly between Ziva and the…former?...director, Tony narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. He opened his mouth a little as Jenny turned, walking out like she always did—tall, in charge, graceful.

"Is she—" he asked, fumbling. "SecNav didn't—he _didn't_—" he stammered, looking around.

"He fired her," Ziva said coldly.

DiNozzo blinked at her, unable to believe it.

"He can't fire her."

"He fired her," Ziva repeated. "Jenny would not resign."

Silent for a moment, Tony whipped to look at McGee and then scowled—and suddenly leapt back at Ziva, eyes wide.

"Why did she apologize to you?" he demanded, advancing on the Israeli. "What else is going to change?"

Ziva folded her hands before her and looked at him blankly.

"My position is secure only under Director Shepard," she said bluntly. "There is a considerable chance I will be sent back to Israel."

Anthony DiNozzo stared at her. He swallowed hard, and turned and gave one hard look to McGee—and then one look around the stunned, silent main floor of NCIS. Then, in jerky, quick movements, he snatched his Sig out of his holster, ripped his ID and badge from inside his pocket and dropped them on Gibbs' desk, scuffing the toe of his foot against a filing cabinet in some anger.

He pushed a hand through his playboy hair and went to his desk, retrieving his keys.

DiNozzo looked at Ziva intently and then nodded curtly at the possessions he'd thrown on Gibbs' desk so rashly.

"Tell Gibbs I quit."

* * *

><p>"I told you Vance was bad," Abby Sciuto hissed dully, having locked herself and McGee in the ballistics lab so as to secure more privacy.<p>

McGee just looked shocked, the same way he had looked when he walked down.

Abby slumped into a chair, her eyes red.

"They can't just fire her!" she protested indignantly. "It's not right!"

McGee nodded.

Abby covered her face.

"What is Tony thinking?" she whined, looking at McGee forlornly. "He can't seriously quit. If Gibbs is going to—Timmy!" gasped Abby, panic seizing her. "Gibbs _is_ staying, right?"

McGee lifted his shoulders.

"He didn't say he was quitting, he just walked the Director out," he told the Goth sincerely. "He won't quit, Abby," McGee soothed.

"McGee, he quit already! When she was still in charge! What will make him stay now?" she demanded, leaping up from her seat. She narrowed her eyes, throwing her hands up in anger. "Go get Tony. Go drag him back here, Tim, _make_ him stay. _He_ has to make _Gibbs_ stay!"

"Abby just calm down. What makes you think _Tony_ can make Gibbs stay—if Gibbs leaves, anyway?"

Abby bit her lip.

"He just can, Tim," she said earnestly. "Tony can do it. Tony can charm anyone," she went on, nodding vigorously. "_Even_ Gibbs. McGee, make him come _back_."

Timothy McGee stared at her, just as shell-shocked, uncertain, and unbalanced as everyone else was after the morning's events. Abby's green eyes, big, liquid, and pleading, bore into his and he stood up.

After all, with Gibbs and DiNozzo AWOL—little McProbie was in charge.

* * *

><p>Clay Jarvis, Secretary of the United States Navy, was going over a few last minute details with soon-to-be-Director Leon Vance in his office when an aid walked in and handed him a note.<p>

Turning slightly pale, Jarvis stood and flicked on his television, startling Vance. He knocked the volume up considerably.

"…development, when a tip came in this morning from NCIS employee Cynthia Summers informing us that Director Jenny Shepard has been dismissed from her position at the agency as of last evening—and Miss Summers evidently followed her, stating that she didn't feel comfortable working at an agency that would fire a woman for garnering bad press due to a sexual assault and went on to say that she '_didn't feel she would be afforded the same understanding and respect under a male director'_—"

"Son of a bitch," swore Vance.

"She went to the press," growled Jarvis in disbelief.

"Her sidekick did."

"No," Jarvis shook her head. "No, Leon, this is _all_ Shepard." He clenched his fist and slowly sat back down, reaching up to rub his forehead in exasperation. Muttering to himself, he listened to a little more of the news report, starting to re-think his actions.

This would make it seem as if he had committed some sort of misogynistic faux-pas and fired her because of Howard's attack—but that wasn't it. Shepard, the media, they could think that all they wanted but she had been let go because of her unprofessional involvement with Gibbs—and the fact that all the media could talk about was _that_.

"Shit," swore the Secretary of the Navy. "I'm going to regret firing her."

* * *

><p>Jenny Shepard was sure she hadn't heard M. Allison Hart stomp so angrily across a room since a sorority girl kissed her boyfriend in college. The brunette, her eyes narrowed sharply, was just popping her cell phone closed.<p>

"You were dismissed from your position?" Allison hissed in an undertone, coming to a full stop in front of the redhead and crossing her arms stiffly, one foot tapping violently on the floor. "Is that pompous, sniveling, unctuous bastard aware of the legal repercussions I could rain down on his witless, bulbous _head_?" she demanded.

Somewhat stunned by all of the colourful, perfect adjectives for the SecNav, Jenny's lip quirked up slightly and she smirked, snorting slightly.

"How are you possible handling this with a _smirk_?" snarled Allison.

Lieutenant Kaffee rubbed his forehead nervously, eyeing Jenny with some apprehension.

"You're handling it too well," he threw in, nodding. "Jenny, this could encourage the jury to believe there's no truth in your story. Your own people didn't support you," he reminded her.

Allison nodded vigorously, as if she agreed.

Jenny's eyes narrowed at the comment.

"My people support me," she said, a little edgily.

For the first time, Allison noticed Gibbs standing there. She gave him a tight nod, but shook her head.

"You cannot tell me you think _he_ counts," she said seriously. "This is not personal, Mr. Gibbs, but you cannot be here for the closing statements or deliberation. It is detrimental to the outcome we're looking for," she said earnestly, her eyes cold and serious.

Kaffee nodded sternly.

"He can't be standing next to you reminding the jury of scandal—" Kaffee began.

Jenny held up a hand, her smirk fading.

"Relax," she said coolly. "He is just a chauffeur."

Allison and Kaffee seemed to deflate a little, both looking frazzled, confused, and stressed out.

Hart looked at her watch and glanced around the courthouse, watching for signs of the press. She nodded, almost to herself, and then turned away a little, pulling out her cell phone.

"I need your assistant's number," she said quietly. "I want that woman here."

Jenny handed over her blackberry distractedly, slipping away as she watched Gibbs answer his phone, stiffen somewhat, and move to a more secluded area, rubbing his hand over his mouth gruffly.

"What?" he barked, and then swore. "Where is he, McGee?" he asked aggressively.

Jenny folded her arms and watched, lifting an eyebrow.

"Find him," snapped Gibbs, hanging up violently and turning around. He looked surprised to find himself face to face with her.

"You good?" he asked tensely.

She nodded.

"What's happened?" she asked.

He grit his teeth, annoyed, and glared, as if he couldn't comprehend the childishness he was dealing with.

"DiNozzo turned in his badge."

* * *

><p>Ziva David was sitting very calmly at her desk, much like she had been the very first day she arrived at NCIS to work with Agent Gibbs' team. She was alone in the bullpen with Tony's badge, gun, and ID.<p>

Gibbs was with Jenny. McGee had fled to Abby's lab—and Ziva had nowhere to go except, it seemed likely, back to Israel. Back to Israel, Mossad, and the officers who saw her as privileged Miss David, agency favorite because she was Daddy's little girl.

Ziva did not hate her father and she did not hate Mossad, but sometimes, she hated the blood she had in common with her father, and she hated that at Mossad she was not seen for her talents but for her parentage.

She hated that everyone at Mossad knew what had happened in Cairo because her own father used it as a presentation to incite officers to rage against the enemies of Israel. Her personal struggles with what had been done to her were Mossad's teaching tool.

And so Ziva David was contemplating what it would mean to be sent back to Israel when McGee came marching back into the bullpen.

"Gibbs is going to knock some sense into DiNozzo," he said seriously, standing in front of Gibbs' desk with a little uncertainty.

Ziva eyed him solemnly.

"Ziva, will Vance send you back to Mossad?" McGee asked.

She tilted her head, and lifted her shoulders in a shrug.

"I do not know, McGee," she said seriously. "My position at NCIS is crucial," she went on, "but Leon Vance has a relationship with my father that eliminates the necessity of a liaison."

McGee frowned, and then nodded.

"Get back to work," he said forcefully.

"What?" Ziva asked, surprised. She was sorry she sounded so shocked by his authority; she thought she might have hurt McGee's feelings.

"Work," he said, sitting down. "The O'Malley case isn't going to solve itself."

* * *

><p>For the final time, at exactly eleven sixteen in the morning, the court convened—Judge presiding over NCIS v. Benjamin Howard in the case of RapeSexual Assault of Director Jennifer Shepard.

Closing arguments were to be made, followed by jury deliberation—which could take, oh, no one knew how long. It was like the last two minutes of a tied Superbowl game.

As the jury, and then the judge, sat, Jenny took a seat, crossing her legs demurely in her spot behind Kaffee and next to Allison. The court was quieter, more solemn than usual—and the judge opened with the usual rules, regulations, et cetera. Jenny's mind was elsewhere.

She turned her head, and looked at Howard.

He wore a suit. Nicely dressed. Looked unaffected and smug, and was staring at the jury with a trained, innocent expression on his face. Jenny narrowed her eyes subconsciously, trying to figure out what was going through his mind. She didn't want to believe that the empire she'd built, her career, had come crashing down because she'd told this _boy_ he couldn't take her to Prom back in the eleventh grade.

She didn't know which seemed more immaterial now, the outcome of this case or the fact that she had been fired. Allison was angry—claiming it was not only morally reprehensible but legal fallacy to fire Jenny 'because of the hassle of a rape case'; Cynthia was outraged, too. Both of them were up in arms.

But Jenny almost couldn't bring herself to be so indignant. She might _pretend_ she had been fired because of Howard if that made her feel better, but she _knew_ it was because of Gibbs. Her affair with Jethro was what had ultimately handed her this fate—that was all the press had been talking about; the sex scandal had obscured the sex crime, and the details that leaked out had jeopardized NCIS' credibility and come very close to destroying hers.

A thousand things were running through her head, regrets, contemplations, paths—things she had time to contemplate now that her job wasn't in the way; things she had always refused to consider lest they make her miserable.

All of this seemed like a twisted, annoying way for the universe to tell her she never should have left Jethro.

Yet, then again, if she had stayed with him in Paris—if she hadn't left—they wouldn't be where they are now. They wouldn't have overcome anything. She'd hate him, she'd be miserable, and he would be the same stoic, gruff Jethro.

Right now, unemployed and waiting for the verdict on a case she probably wouldn't come out the victor in, she almost felt like she got the good end of the deal.

* * *

><p>When DiNozzo didn't open his door after the third courtesy knock, Gibbs shot the lock off and walked in, the expression on his face neutral—as if nothing had happened.<p>

Tony leapt up from his couch, staring, pale, at the door. He glared at Gibbs and pointed at him angrily.

"Did you just shoot my door?"

Gibbs glared at his senior field agent and shut the mangled door behind him.

"I need to explain rule number three again, DiNozzo?" he demanded gruffly.

"'Never be unreachable'?" sneered Tony. "Doesn't apply if I don't work for you," he said dully, flopping back down on his couch and giving Gibbs a baleful look.

Gibbs strolled into the room as if he owned it, his eyes boring into DiNozzo's aggressively. He put his keys on a table and stood in the middle of the room, just glaring. Waiting for Tony to speak.

"What?" burst out Tony suddenly, throwing his hands out nervously. "What, Gibbs? You think I made the wrong choice?"

Gibbs eyed him a minute and then moved to sit down, leaning forward intently.

"Yeah," he drawled after a minute.

"I didn't."

"You think?"

"Is this a _test_?" DiNozzo demanded. "SecNav _fired_ Jenny!"

"Yeah, DiNozzo, I know," Gibbs said gruffly.

"And you're okay with that?" asked Tony, incredulous.

Gibbs didn't answer. He narrowed his eyes at Tony.

"Why's it matter so much to you, DiNozzo?" he asked seriously.

Tony hadn't quit when Gibbs had handed in his badge over the Pin Pin Pula incident, but he was prepared to throw his career away for Jenny. It didn't quite match up.

Tony grit his teeth.

"I'm mad."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," growled Tony aggressively. "I backed her on the Frog thing when SecNav did an inquiry. I _backed_ her, Gibbs, and I didn't do it so he could fire her for something _stupid_."

"What else," coaxed Gibbs seriously.

Tony just looked incredulous.

"You don't think there's something wrong?" he demanded angrily, standing up again. He ran a hand over his mouth. "I'm not working for a guy who _fires_ a woman for getting _raped_," he barked edgily, his eyes darkening.

Gibbs looked at Tony, narrowing his eyes carefully. He shook his head slowly.

"Not why she was fired, DiNozzo," he said.

Tony scoffed, folding his arms stiffly. He glared at Gibbs, waiting to be enlightened.

"He fired her 'cause of me, Tony," Gibbs said, shrugging.

"That's what he says," snorted DiNozzo derisively. "I don't believe it, Gibbs."

Gibbs lifted his shoulders. It was true. He held Tony's annoyed glare.

"Yeah?" bristled Tony, nodding. "Then why didn't he fire _you_?"

"It's _her_ abuse of power," answered Gibbs.

Tony cackled.

"That's cheap," he growled. He paced around a little and shot a look at Gibbs. "Gibbs, he thinks she's _lying_."

"I know," Gibbs said.

"How can you take that?" demanded Tony desperately. "You know that bastard hurt the Director, and you can just stand by and let SecNav abuse her, too?"

Gibbs stood up, grabbing Tony's arm to stop him moving.

"I'm not letting SecNav abuse her," he growled sharply, glaring at his senior agent stonily.

He wasn't going to take an accusation like that sitting down. No one was going to tell him he had meekly allowed Jenny to be attacked—not even Anthony DiNozzo, junior.

DiNozzo swallowed hard, looking a little caught off guard and frightened. He backed up a little, but Gibbs was still pinching his arm in a vice-like grip.

"You aren't about to throw away your career, DiNozzo," Gibbs warned authoritatively. He reached into his pocket and took out the effects Tony had left on his desk, having swung by to pick them up. He smacked them into DiNozzo's palm and let go of the younger man's arm. "She doesn't want anyone following her out."

"Cynthia—"

"Vance would have fired her," Gibbs cut him off sharply. "It's a rule. You don't keep the old Director's assistant. Loyalty ain't the same."

DiNozzo swallowed and stared distastefully at the gun in his palm. He bit the inside of his cheek, set his jaw, and looked up at Gibbs harshly.

"Ziva was raped," he said.

Gibbs nodded once curtly.

"You knew?"

Gibbs nodded again.

Why he knew was none of DiNozzo's business; he just did. He knew quite a bit about Ziva that Tony was probably unaware of. Gibbs, for one, knew Ziva did not want to return to Mossad.

Tony frowned, gritting his teeth. He clutched his things in his palm. Gibbs moved his head to the side, eyeing Tony intently. He lowered his voice.

"You doin' this for her, Tony?" he asked gruffly.

Tony looked terrified.

"Vance'll send her back," he said.

"Quitting won't change that," Gibbs said.

"She said she had to see Jenny get justice," DiNozzo explained. "This is _in_justice."

Gibbs glared at him intently.

"And you think quitting shows Ziva somethin'?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Tony moved his mouth soundlessly, flushing a little.

"We thought you were gonna quit," he said meekly, deflating a little.

Gibbs moved his head left and right a little. He shrugged.

"NCIS isn't where Jenny belongs," he said cryptically. "It _is_ where you belong."

DiNozzo slumped a little, holding his gun, badge, and ID.

"Not if Ziva's in Israel, Boss," he grumbled half-heartedly, as if he couldn't believe he was saying it.

Gibbs shrugged gruffly, frowning a little thoughtfully. He put his hands in his pockets and glared at Tony, giving him a few words of wisdom learned from experience:

"Ask her to stay."

* * *

><p>In a secluded coffee shop down the street from the courthouse, M. Allison Hart and Jenny Shepard escaped the lunacy of the press and the frustration of a still-deliberating jury and settled into a back corner in an attempt to clear their heads.<p>

The jury was in their fourth hour of deliberation, and no one knew if that were a good or bad sign for Howard or Jenny. Kaffee and Fernandez were about to drive everyone insane and Jenny was tired and distracted, while Allison was disgruntled and in a rage.

"I can sue him, Jen," she said earnestly. "I can absolutely vilify him. I can have his job ripped from him and handed to _you_, civilian or no."

Jenny laughed, lifting her head and taking a sip of her espresso.

"Maggie," she said very calmly. "I don't want to see him," she said again, honestly. "I do not want to see his face again. I want to move on."

Leaning back, at a loss, Allison just stared.

"I don't understand how you can say that," she said meekly.

Jenny lifted her shoulders.

"I don't either," she confessed. She raised her eyes and looked at her long-time friend. "You think it's because I have a master's in Communications and a law degree, neither of which I paid for with NCIS in mind?"

Allison looked at Jenny and tilted her head, parting her lips thoughtfully.

"I was surprised when you joined NCIS, Jenny," she said, shrugging. "I thought you loved it. You said you were called."

"By an irrational ache for revenge," she answered softly. "My father—Colonel would roll over in his grave if he knew I gave up that White House offer to chase down Rene Benoit."

Swallowing a shudder, Allison smirked.

"Yeah, old Colonel would throw a big fit," she agreed, remembering Jenny's stern but loving father fondly. Hart tossed her head back and laughed. "Not because you gave up the job, Jen," she giggled. "Because you practically joined the god damn _Navy_!"

Jenny snickered too, burying her nose in her coffee. The Army faithful elder Shepard would have died to hear it, much less condone it. Settling down some, Jenny hugged her coffee cup in her palms and shifted in her seat, shrugging.

"I do love NCIS," she murmured thoughtfully. "In some way. I was so driven by the Frog for so long I don't think I ever really took a minute to ask if I wanted that job for _me_. It isn't like a spy movie. It wears you down and it gets in your head—all that murder, the constant crime, it's…" she paused, remembering the time in Paris that Gibbs had been forced to execute a target for her when she couldn't do it. "I like the rhetoric of being Director," she said, tapping the edge of her cup and lifting it again.

She took a sip.

"But as ridiculous as it sounds, Maggie…the only part of NCIS my heart has ever been in is Jethro."

Allison crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow. She snorted, rolled her eyes, and drank her own cup of Joe in silence, trying to understand Jenny. She swallowed and took a deep breath, letting go her thoughts of suing for Jenny's reinstatement.

"So that's it? You're just okay with this?"

"No. I'm a complete mess," Jenny groaned, paling a little. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Well," Allison began sweetly. "You could have that Jethro put a ring on your finger, bear his children, and make him sandwiches until your death."

Jenny looked horrified. She flicked a rolled up piece of napkin at the snarky brunette.

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed, smirking slyly. "You know I don't cook. Even sandwiches. I just can't figure out the bread to meat ratio—"

"Are you talking about that time in college you forgot to put two pieces of bread on the peanut butter and jelly?" asked Hart loudly.

"Shut your whore mouth," said Jenny, cheering up quite a bit at the memories.

She was fairly certain she wasn't supposed to be feeling this way—she didn't know how one was supposed to feel in the middle of a rape trial right after losing her job—but everything was so off-kilter and surreal that she just went with it.

"What _are_ you going to do?" Allison asked seriously, looking at Jenny curiously.

Jenny rubbed her cheek and leaned forward on one elbow, tilting her head. She sighed, contemplating that question.

"I don't know, Mag," she said, blowing air through her lips. "Let's hear the verdict, eh? If I'm a victim, I'll find a job—I'll use that hundred thousand dollar degree I have. If I'm a manipulative liar? Hell, maybe I'll have kids with Jethro."

* * *

><p>"The next time you hand in your badge you'd better be prepared to lose it," barked Gibbs, throwing Tony's effects at him as they stormed back into the bullpen. It was all for show, and on the inside, Gibbs smirked to himself.<p>

"Gibbs!" Abby wailed, leaping out of his chair and throwing herself at him. "I thought you'd left us, too!" she moaned, squeezing the living daylights out of him.

"Can't breathe, Abs," he grunted, his voice muffled in her pigtails.

She leapt back, clasping her hands.

"What's happening?" she demanded. "The Director is coming back, right? Everything will be okay and Vance doesn't get to be in charge?" she asked hopefully.

"Vance is in charge," Gibbs said firmly. He looked up at McGee. "Word on the case?" he asked.

"Ours or—"

"Hers."

McGee shook his head.

"Still deliberating," he said.

Gibbs looked around sharply.

"Where's Ziva?" he asked curtly.

DiNozzo eyed her empty desk edgily, fidgeting with his things.

"She went to the courthouse," McGee answered. He held up some papers. "We found some incriminating bank statements on the Petty Officer's computer…" Tim began, easing into work quickly enough to make Gibbs proud.

"Lab," Gibbs said gently to Abby.

"Jenny-" began the Goth.

Gibbs just glared at her mildly. Abby half-heatedly scampered off to her lab to get back to work, and DiNozzo came up to view the bank statements with McGee, glancing at Gibbs every once in a while in a furtive, sketchy manner.

McGee stared at DiNozzo curiously, concerned by the weird behavior.

"What are you looking at, Probie?" demanded DiNozzo, looking up suddenly to glare at his contemporary.

McGee frowned, and he looked around. Then he took the papers and set them down, glaring surprisingly at Gibbs and Tony.

"Just wondering why we're not at the courthouse," he said matter-of-factly. "If she's not the Director anymore, then she's our friend."

And that was how nearly half—to exaggerate—of NCIS's employees ended up at the Washington DC federal courthouse at five o'clock in the afternoon.

* * *

><p>Badge pinned clearly on his lapel; Tony DiNozzo found a seat next to Ziva and lounged back, looking with stern, challenging charm at everyone. Abby Sciuto scuttled cheerily up to the front and sat behind Jenny, drawing quite a few stares from the other observers.<p>

M. Allison Hart found herself somewhat inconvenienced when, as everyone was filing back in for the verdict, an insistent shadow fell over her as she sat next to Jenny and glared at her until she acknowledged it.

"You're in my seat," growled Gibbs bluntly, nodding his head at Jenny.

Hart glared at him, opening her mouth to sass him—but Jenny laid a hand on her friend's knee.

"Move," she snapped. "Don't alienate Plan B," she hissed, referencing their café conversation.

Hart arched an eyebrow and smirked, haughtily standing and moving over for Gibbs to sit down next to his redhead.

"Mr. Gibbs," she greeted, inclining her head snottily.

Gibbs leaned over to Jenny.

"What's Plan B?" he asked in a suspicious undertone.

"It's a drug women use when they forget birth control," she answered back.

He glared at her, getting the distinct feeling that he had missed something.

* * *

><p>"Ziva," hissed DiNozzo, nudging her leg with his elbow as the judge began speaking solemnly to the court.<p>

She shot him a warning look out of the very _very_ corner of her eye.

He grinned goofily.

"Ziva," he hissed again, this time getting a slight turn of the head.

"Court is in session," she said icily, in a very restrained, low voice.

"I know," he said in a whisper. "That's why I'm talkin' now, so you don't make a scene."

She eyed him out of her peripheral, raising an eyebrow.

"I took back my quitting," he went on. "Gibbs made me. Gibbs is very convincing, especially when he grabs you with his angry Marine pincers. Anyway, even though I took it back, you know I quit because I don't want you to go back to Israel, right?"

"Tony, that does not make sense."

"It does in my head."

"I am not in your head!"

"Yes. You are," he answered pointedly. And a little loudly.

The judge shot them a look.

Ziva stared ahead stonily. Tony smiled charmingly and they both stayed silent. Once the attention had been turned away from them specifically, Tony turned _his_ back to _her_.

"You won't get _out_ of my head," he said. "Like a sneaky brain-ninja. It's _annoying_."

Her eyes narrowed. She turned her head and gave him a look.

"Should I be flattered?" she hissed at him.

The judge was still talking. A lawyer was arguing something.

DiNozzo nodded.

"I'm trying, Ziva," he muttered under his breath, wincing. He grit his teeth. "Look, you should leave Mossad," he said in a quiet rush. "Don't go back even if Vance makes you. Apply for citizenship here."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're one of us," Tony said seriously. He smirked. "And, uh, I don't want to have to follow you to Israel."

* * *

><p>"Have you reached a verdict?" asked the Judge.<p>

"Yes, your honor."

"Will the jury spokesperson please read the verdict to the court?"

A short, portly man stood up front and cleared his throat, unfolding a piece of paper and waiting a moment as he glanced back at his jury members.

"On the count of rape in the second degree, the jury finds the defendant, Benjamin Howard—"

Standing up, Howard looked collected. He looked confident. He looked rather cool. And as she watched him, Jenny narrowed her eyes and set her jaw, unable to fathom how she would handle it when the jury deemed him—

"Guilty," the spokesperson said loud and clear.

Eyes wide, Jenny started, turning towards the jury with parted lips. Kaffee moved his fist in a triumphant movement, while the judge nodded and began speaking. Camera bulbs flashed, and a murmur came from some journalists in the back.

M. Allison Hart leaned forward and arched an eyebrow at Jenny confidently.

Jenny leaned forward and covered her mouth, her eyes wide with both relief and surprise. She had been sure they would acquit him—she had been _sure_.

She was being proven _un_sure about a lot of things lately.

* * *

><p>"The press is fighting for you," Hart said smugly.<p>

"They are now," Jenny said distastefully, lifting a cold shoulder. "Let them."

"You don't want to bask a little?" coaxed Allison sweetly.

Jenny just shook her head, standing outside the courtroom with a group of who used to be her employees. She was still finding it difficult to believe they had come to sit in that stupid courtroom—a courtroom she never should have been in. In some irrational way, though, she was glad she had been.

"Who's up for drinks?" asked DiNozzo loudly, a lopsided, dashing grin on his face.

Ziva punched him in the stomach.

"Did you really just say that, Tony?" she asked, glaring at him in disbelief.

The others looked surprised as well, considering the case.

Jenny was the one to laugh.

"Got one taker," he managed in a weak jest, still doubled over.

"What will his punishment be?" Ziva asked, her dark eyes meeting Jenny's with interest.

"Five years incarceration," answered Jenny neutrally. "Most likely only serve two."

Ziva tilted her head.

"Good enough, Ziva?" asked Tony.

She inclined her head, frowning thoughtfully.

"I would still like to kill him," she announced solemnly. "But it is something solid."

Jenny nodded.

It was closure; better than the lack of closure Ziva would always live with.

* * *

><p>"Mossad is everything I have ever known," Ziva David said bluntly, shrugging her shoulders.<p>

She stood in her apartment, facing Tony—late into the night after the case and after work, addressing what he had started in the courtroom.

"You left for a reason," DiNozzo said adamantly. "You—you requested the liaison position."

"NCIS is different than Mossad. It is…people look out for their own here," she explained her decision.

DiNozzo nodded.

"So I don't know why you'd go back."

"I have to be sure, Tony. I cannot just abandon my blood and my heritage because you have decided you would like to play house."

"Well don't put it like that Ziva, jeez," he grumbled, glaring at her.

She sighed heavily, crossing her arms.

"I cannot make you promises," she said seriously, her eyes softening. "But I do not _want_ to go back. I must, do you understand? I have to be _sure_."

DiNozzo frowned.

"Okay," he said slowly. He pointed at her. "Okay, but I'm going to hold you to it. Really, Ziva, I'll be pissed if I have to come to Israel."

She rolled her eyes at him, shaking her head.

"He's sending you back?" asked Tony with a cringe, aware Ziva had spoken to her father and the new Director both today.

She nodded.

"The Liaison position is being terminated for the time being."

Tony frowned.

"Damn," he swore. "Well, I'm not going to sleep with anyone else while you're gone, okay?"

* * *

><p>"Don't you want to watch me get fired?" Jenny asked seriously, poking at some Chinese food at her kitchen table.<p>

He glared at her over his carton and shook his head back and forth slowly. She smirked and leaned back in her chair, crossing her ankles in his lap. She shrugged.

"Suit yourself," she said, glancing at the clock. "It's happening in five minutes," she cooed sarcastically. He rolled his eyes and shook his head again, annoying her brave-faced antics.

"You don't want to see it, Jen," he said seriously.

She shrugged and poked at her food some more, swallowed slowly.

"I know," she agreed quietly, shrugging again. He rested his hand on her ankle and rubbed back and forth, the pressure warm and comforting. She frowned, unable to find the pieces of food she was trying to pick out, and slid the carton away. She propped her hand on the back of her chair and watched him eat.

She rubbed her forehead lightly.

"God," she murmured. "I feel like I was hit by a Mac truck," she groaned, sighing heavily. "What am I going to do with myself?"

He looked at her intently, tilting his head.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

She glared at him.

"Get my affairs in order, I guess," she said, thinking to herself. "Look for another job. I don't know, Jethro," she paused, biting her lip. She smirked wickedly. "I could re-decorate your house," she said slowly.

He froze, looking at her in horror.

"What?" he asked sharply.

"Yes," she said, nodding with a smirk. "I could shop for a new mattress—and some sheets for the bed, so we don't have to have sex on the couch—"

"We can have sex on the floor!" he protested.

"—some nice floral greens, or a bright sort of sunny orange—" she went on, raising her voice.

"We can have sex _here_," he tried again, sounding desperate. "Jen, leave my house alone," he growled loudly.

"You know what?" she announced decisively. "I think I'll just move in. That will make it easier for me to begin inserting myself into every aspect of your life, don't you think? I really think me losing this job will be beneficial to our intimacy, Jethro—" but she stopped, cracking up immediately when she saw the look on his face.

He was stuck somewhere between horrified and confused and shocked and just plain blank. He stared at her with chopsticks in his hands and a slack jaw, narrowing his eyes.

"You want to move in?" he asked after a moment, thrusting his chopsticks into the carton.

She stopped smiling and shook her head, eyes widening.

No," she breathed. "God no—Jethro, I mean," she broke off. "That's too much change too fast," she explained, softening the blow. "I need to figure out what my life is without this job."

He leaned forward and set the carton on the table with hers. He leaned over and took the leg of her chair in his hand, sliding it across the kitchen linoleum closer to him. She lifted an eyebrow and looked at him; he was inches from her face now, his blue eyes calm and soft.

"Jethro," she said quietly, tilting her head. She bit her lip. "You know I never remembered anything. Nothing but flashes. Or horrible, vague nightmares."

"You still having nightmares?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Yeah," she answered thickly. "I feel out of control."

"He's going to jail, Jen."

"It doesn't matter," she said with a shrug. "Ziva thinks it does. Maybe it would to her. I _still_ feel out of control."

Gibbs massaged her ankle still eyeing her sympathetically.

A lot had happened in the range of little over a month. She had lost her job so quickly on top of the assault and it was as if she had never really had time to grasp any of it. She felt like the worst was coming up—in the next week or so, when having nothing to do drove her crazy and then—

"I'm going to drive you crazy," she said shakily, caution crossing her green eyes. "I don't know how to function in a relationship unless I spend most of my time neglecting it."

He gave her a look.

"Me neither, Jen," he said, lifting his shoulders. "Been divorced three times."

She lowered her eyes and then looked back up bravely.

"You made it work with Shannon," she said with quiet conviction. She shook her head. "Jethro, I'm not Shannon."

He put a hand over his mouth and rubbed. Slowly, he shook his head back and forth.

"I know, Jenny," he said hoarsely. He made a strange face and furrowed his brow, frowning to himself. "I'm not asking you to be her."

He wasn't. But, he realized, he had been before. And he had silently asked the other three to be Shannon as well. He had scrutinized every little thing they did and categorized it into 'Shannon did that' or 'Shannon didn't do that' and then he had stacked the differences against them until he shoved them away.

Jenny was different. Or it could be that he had come to grips with losing Shannon—it could be a mix of both.

He just understood, from stopping her from leaving again last night, that losing Jenny would hurt just as badly as losing Shannon had, and keeping Jenny at arms' length didn't bring Shannon back.

Jenny leaned forward, pulling her knees up a little, and inched closer, sidling up to his shoulder and resting her head by his neck. She blew air out through her lips. He slid his hand up to her knee and squeezed, kissing her temple lingeringly.

"I'll have paperwork to fill out for my termination," Jenny murmured dully. "My last paperwork for NCIS. Never thought it'd be this."

"Get it over with fast," he said, pushing her hair back. "Come to work with me tomorrow."

She laughed.

"What, are Fridays bring your bitch to work day now?" she asked lightly.

He snorted.

"My bitch?" he repeated. "You didn't want to be my maid but you'll be my _bitch_?" He grasped her hair and tilted her head back, arching his eyebrows suggestively. "That mean I can ask you to do things I wouldn't ask of a woman I respect?"

She snickered and pursed her lips, slipping her hand between his legs.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked, lowering her voice.

"Hmmm," he mused dramatically, tilting his head back. He pushed her head against his chest and suggestively downward, tangling his fingers in her hair playfully. Jenny laughed loudly, wrinkling her nose against his shirt.

She swung her legs off his lap and fell to her knees between his, resting her hands on his thighs.

She arched an eyebrow.

"Oh, this is what you want?" she teased. "You think because you wrote me that note, you get a blowjob in my kitchen?" she clicked her tongue.

He put his hand back in her hair.

"That is so romantic," she rolled her eyes and reached for his zipper, leaning forward to pull it down with her teeth.

Jethro leaned forward and gripped the table with one hand.

"Damn, Jen," he growled.

"I haven't even touched you yet," she placated, laughing.

"I meant what I said in that note," he said gruffly.

Jenny laughed again.

"Good thing the teacher didn't catch us passing it," she hissed.

This time, he laughed, tightening his hand in her hair as she leaned back a little—and he tried to stop it. Feeling oddly giddy, she laughed, too, and looked up at him, forcing her head up under his hand.

"Jethro," she choked out, giggling.

"Jen, shut-up," he growled through his teeth, nudging her kneecap with his foot.

"Feels like Paris again," she snickered.

"'Cause you're thinking of that restaurant where you got under the table—"

"I dropped my fork-!"

"—and got us kicked out—"

Jenny burst out laughing, leaning forward against Jethro's inner thigh. He tilted his head back, tortured and amused by the muffled vibrations of her laughter. He loved her laughter.

From the doorway came the sudden sound of someone clearing his or her throat.

Jenny sat up straight, looking over sharply. Gibbs lifted his head slowly and looked. He arched an eyebrow and glared at the brunette standing there. Damn woman. Interfering with everything.

Interfering with a blowjob.

Unforgiveable.

In that moment, the chance of M. Allison Hart and Leroy Jethro Gibbs being friends was eviscerated.

"What am I seeing right now?" asked Hart, lifting her hand slightly as if she might cover her eyes.

Jenny compressed her lips.

"I lost an earring," she said, deadpan.

"Oh for the love of god, Jen, I _taught_ you that excuse," scoffed Hart, rolling her eyes.

"What is she doing here?" demanded Gibbs, glaring at Hart.

"I left a bag here," the publicist responded sharply, glaring right back. She lifted her eyebrow as Jenny sat there, silent, and parted her lips. "I would say it's good to see you back on your feet, but…" she trailed off, letting the sentence hang.

"Will you leave please? Can you go?" said Jenny, scowling at her friend. "I would like you to go now. Goodbye Maggie."

"Don't worry, Jenny, I don't feel rushed," Hart said, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. She held up her hands and backed away. "You kids," she said lightly, turning to head up the stairs.

She paused and pointed at the kitchen table, suspicious and a little leery.

"Have the two of you—" she began, narrowing her eyes. "I ate off that table. Has sex taken place on that table?"

"I don't know, _Maggie_, did you fuck your Economics professor—"

Hart held up her hands in a "truce!" position and scuttled off, her cheeks flushing.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow and looked at Jenny.

"Did she?" he asked, mildly curious.

"I swear, Jethro," teased Jenny. "If you weren't with me, you'd want her between your knees."

"Jen," he growled, cupping her chin in his warm palm and eyeing her intensely. "Already told you. Hair's the wrong colour."

"Hmm," she snorted, rolling her eyes.

He pulled her up against him, pressing her body into him, between his legs and against his chest.

"I want you," he said huskily, leaning forward to kiss the corner of her mouth. "Jen," he groaned, kissing her lips possessively. His eyes were heavy and lidded; he wrapped his arms around her and just kissed her hard and deep.

And Jenny, kneeling at her full height on the cold kitchen floor, didn't have any doubt left. She had a crumpled piece of paper, his signature—and his actions spoke louder than those damn words he always forgot to say.

* * *

><p><em>-Epilogue up next! Feedback always welcomed and appreciated.<em>  
><em>-Alexandra <em>


	10. Chapter 10

_****A/N: As promised; the epilogue. I'm tickled to death by it, though it's not what you're expecting, I'll wager. There's a bit of a time jump._

_Alas, another NCIS-less week. Tsk, tsk, CBS._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Epilogue<strong>_

"On the topic of how the Media crafts perception of individuals, let's get a taste of what that can mean. No need to look far. You tell me—shout it out—what you thought of me when you read my name on your schedules," she smirked slightly, coming around her desk. "What prejudices did you have, what assumptions did you make?"

Perching on the end of her desk, Jennifer Shepard leaned casually on one palm, supporting her weight easily.

She eyed the classroom; one brow lifted, and pursed her lips.

"Don't be shy," she coaxed crisply, tilting her head. "We know each other well, after half a semester—what perceptions did you have of me?"

The former Director of NCIS waited, meeting the eyes of each caught-off-guard, slightly uncomfortable university freshman. After a moment, a girl in the back lifted her pencil and bit her lip, then spoke.

"I thought you were a whore," she said tentatively.

Jenny nodded her head curtly.

"So did channel eight," she said with a shrug. "Anyone else brave?"

"I thought you were unprofessional."

"You sounded like a bitch."

"I thought you deserved justice."

"I thought you were irresponsible."

Once the hesitancy was broken, the students began to offer frank opinions—which was what she wanted. The students were always shocked when she did this. She nodded curtly with each confession, again eyeing the student who had said it.

It was, after all, a politics and media class. What better way to illustrate how media influenced American citizens than to use her own experience?

"I thought you were a liar."

"I thought you told the truth."

"I thought you were hot," piped up a rowdy looking fraternity brother from the front.

Jenny quirked an eyebrow at him and said nothing, looking around the classroom with approval.

"And now?" she asked.

"You're smart," said one girl.

"Uhh, you're kind of a prude," said the girl who had first called her a whore, flushing slightly.

"You're a hard ass."

"Still hot," drawled the boy again.

Jenny crossed one knee over the other, smoothing the fabric of her skirt as she waited for the murmuring to die down. She leaned back on her other hand, staring at the students, and shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"Think about that," she said mildly. "The perceptions you had when you saw my name. Perceptions crafted by the media. Then consider how long it took you to let go of those prejudices once you interacted with me. Come prepared next week to discuss the sinister nature of character assassination."

The students began to shuffle around, a low roar of talking erupting, as they got ready to leave. She sat where she was until most of them had trickled out. When the classroom was empty, she slowly gathered her things, removing her University ID from around her neck as she slung her soft leather bag over her shoulder. She bit her lip and closed her eyes momentarily, bracing herself for going home.

She had slipped out early this morning to avoid his looks, but she knew he'd be home early tonight.

Taking a deep breath, Jenny straightened and walked towards the door, tucking her necklace into her shirt protectively. She flicked off the classroom lights and shut the door behind her.

It was three years to the day since she'd been fired.

* * *

><p>He ran his hand smoothly over the sanded edge of the boat, his eyes narrowed critically as he analyzed his work and the wood. He heard her come in, heard her footsteps, and expected her to come downstairs—but she didn't.<p>

Narrowing his eyes, Leroy Jethro Gibbs paused and straightened, staring up at the ceiling cautiously. She was still hiding from him, then, like she'd been when she slipped out so damn early this morning.

He threw the sander into his toolbox and went up the stairs, taking them two at a time and brushing his hands off on his jeans.

"Jen?" he called, glancing into the kitchen. "Jenny—" he began, turning to walk through the rest of the house. Her movement caught his eye though and he stopped; she was sitting by the fireplace, her hand tented delicately over something.

He shut up and walked towards her casually, looking down at her a minute. He sat on the couch, leaning forward on his knees.

"Bad day at work?" he asked mildly, eyes boring into her.

She currently worked as chair of the Communications Department and a professor of political media at American University, and Gibbs was sure it had been a bad day. On a campus like that—considering whom she was—the topic of Howard's release from jail had no doubt come up.

Jenny shrugged and puckered her lips.

"No," she answered curtly. "My colleagues and students were silently infuriating," she answered sarcastically. He smirked, moving off the couch to sit on the floor and lean against it. He put his hands in his lap and tilted his head, glaring at her in his concerned way.

"I'm fine, Jethro, I don't give a damn," she said shortly. She looked away from him.

"Dammit, Jenny," he swore tiredly. "Just admit it bothers the hell out of you."

She glared at him, seething.

"It bothers me," she complied snidely. "He _raped_ me," she growled. "It's immaterial. He served his time. What do you suggest we do, hunt him down and execute him?"

"Want me to?" asked Gibbs coldly, narrowing his eyes.

She looked at him warily. He wasn't taking Howard's release any better than she was. She looked at him with a pale frown and pushed her hair back, her expression grim. Gibbs leaned forward and squeezed her thigh, tugging on her leg.

"C'mere," he coaxed.

Muttering to herself, Jenny shifted to her knees and crawled over, picking up the piece of paper she'd had under her hand. She ducked under his arm and stretched out at his side, placing her head right below his shoulder near his neck.

He wrapped an arm around her, rubbing her upper arm soothingly.

They sat in silence for a moment, and Gibbs looked down at the necklace that had fallen out of Jenny's shirt. He moved his hand and ran his thumb over the white-gold diamond ring, smirking. She wore it on a delicate silver chain around her neck, claiming she'd wear it on her left hand if she ever decided she actually wanted to marry him.

Jenny placed her crumpled piece of paper on his thigh and began stroking it with her fingers, smoothing it out.

He watched her for a minute and tilted his head back, searching for something to take her mind off Howard. He hated when that bastard was in her head. It hadn't gotten better since it had happened; it had gotten worse. Under all of the stress and chaos and depression of losing her job and struggling with the media, she'd started to remember the events of Howard's attack clearly, and now talking about him brought images instead of just detached knowledge.

Gibbs didn't want that tonight. He never wanted it, though he was determined to help her deal with it, but he knew it would be worse if they went there tonight and he wanted to prevent it early. He cleared his throat.

"Ziva's back," he said slowly, still rubbing her shoulder.

Jenny moved her head slowly, her neck arching as she looked up at him. Her eyebrows went up.

"Are things official?" she asked hesitantly.

Gibbs nodded.

"She filled out her final paperwork at NCIS," he said gruffly. "Takes her Citizenship oath in three days," he added.

Jenny laughed, her eyes lighting up for a moment.

"How's Tony taking it?" she asked wryly, wrinkling her nose.

Gibbs snorted.

"You mean living with her?" he asked. "Hell if I know, Jen," he said, smirking.

Jenny snorted, and sat up a little, putting her elbow on the couch cushions and drawing her knees up. She placed her legs over Gibbs' lap and her hand on his bicep, massaging gently with her knuckles.

Her brow furrowed.

"He's out of his mind," she said, snickering.

"Yeah," agreed Gibbs in a drawl.

The first sign of _that_ had been DiNozzo's skipping off to Israel for a visit about a year after Vance terminated Ziva's position, and coming back with a wedding ring and a half-concocted plan to reinstate her at NCIS.

Post-NCIS, Ziva had butted heads with not only her father but also everyone at Mossad. She had requested her position back but was denied; Vance already had a Mossad connection through his relationship with Eli David.

So Tony found another way. He had been in a grueling process to help ram through Ziva's application for U.S. citizenship when he'd come back from Israel a third time with a catalyst for the process—he'd knocked her up.

"Did she have the baby at NCIS?" Jenny ventured.

Gibbs turned his head and met her eyes.

"Nah," he shook his head. "Too little. She left 'im with DiNozzo."

"_Why_ would she do that?" asked Jenny seriously, deadpan. Gibbs shrugged; looking as if he thought the idea was just as boneheaded.

"The kid has a weird name," growled Gibbs.

Jenny furrowed her brow, glaring at him. She swatted his bicep.

"Chaim?" she said. "It's Hebrew, Jethro," she murmured, admonishing him. "As if DiNozzo would do any better," she said primly. "Ziva says he tried to name him _Magnum_."

"Don't think Chaim Magnum has a nice ring to it?"

"Jethro, the baby's middle name is Anthony."

"That's arrogant," Gibbs pointed out bluntly.

Jenny snorted.

"I think it's a family thing," she whispered conspiratorially, inching closer to him. "I want to see the baby," she pouted, closing her eyes. He was still playing with the ring on her necklace, and he looked down at the paper she was still fiddling with.

"Looks like everyone else's baby," he said with a shrug.

Jenny swatted him again. She frowned, nipping his bicep playfully. He reached from her neck to her hand and stopped her playing with the three-year-old tattered piece of paper, holding it up between his fingers. He eyed it guardedly, looking down at her with an arched eyebrow.

He saw it all the time. She really did use the damn thing as a bookmark. Sometimes she left it lying by the bedside lamp. Sometimes she put it in a drawer with the diamond ring, if she was going to work out.

"You could just put the ring on," he growled pointedly, waving the paper as if it were nothing.

She reached up and closed her hand over his.

"Jethro," she said softly. "I'm never putting the ring on," she said again. She refused to marry him. That was something he wanted, and why? She didn't know. But he wanted it like she occasionally still wanted him to tell her out loud, in English, that he loved her.

And you can't always get what you want.

She delicately took the scrap from him.

"You know I'll be reading this long after you're gone," she teased, sizing him up as if he might keel over.

He glared at her, annoyed at her jabs about him being old.

He pointed flippantly at the paper.

"Frame that, then." he growled.

She laughed, tilting her head back in disbelief.

"Jesus, Jethro, if you can't say these words, you sure as hell don't want me to hang them on the mantle!" she mocked, straightening up.

Her hair fell forward and she bit her lip, narrowing her eyes as she held up the scrap and eyed the faded sharpie-black words, remembering a flash of the tense, frustrating night he'd pinned her against the wall and written them right above her head.

_Jen,_

_I love you. I don't want you to go._

_Leroy Jethro Gibbs._

He grabbed her hand and pushed it down, crunching up the paper and lunging forward to kiss her senseless. It was very dramatic; he hugged her thighs to his middle and tangled his hand in her hair. Jenny shrieked, her mind taken completely off Howard, and all of the stress that had come with that. The diamond ring felt warm against her chest.

"Boss!"

It took Gibbs a minute to stop kissing Jenny, which meant Tony DiNozzo walked right in on his boss and the former Director being silly on the living room floor.

"Oh, hey, sorry Boss," he said loudly, clearly unconcerned. He slammed the door behind him and bounded into the living room, ignoring the aggressive glare he was receiving from both parties.

Instead, he beamed; looking tired but proud, and held up a blue and white infant's car seat.

"Look what I got," he announced smugly, presenting the wide-awake three-week-old baby to Jenny and Gibbs.

Jenny raised her eyebrows.

"The next generation of NCIS," she teased fondly, sitting forward as Tony set the car seat down on the floor in front of them. The baby was asleep. Jenny gently began undoing his little seatbelt straps. "Ziva behind you?" Jenny asked absently, picking up the baby and leaning back.

Gibbs leaned over and peered at Tony's son, cupping the crown of his head.

DiNozzo, still looking smug and quite proud of him, shook his head.

"She's asleep at home. She said I could wait until tomorrow to show you guys, but I didn't want to—check him out, Boss, he looks like me," Tony said, leaning forward.

"I can't believe she let you drive him anywhere," Jenny muttered protectively.

"She didn't," Tony said absently. "I figured I could show 'im off and then get 'im back before she wakes up."

Gibbs started to stand, glaring at DiNozzo. Jenny looked shocked.

"You _stole_ the baby?" she gasped, her eyes widening in horror.

"What? No. I didn't steal him; he's mine!" protested Tony, looking frightened.

"DiNozzo!" barked Gibbs, staring down his idiot agent.

"Tony, if she wakes up she'll panic," Jenny said, looking down at Ziva's baby. Gibbs grabbed his phone, dialing the number of Tony's apartment.

DiNozzo seemed to realize what would happen if Ziva did wake up and find the baby gone.

There would be no chance of more babies when she was done with him.

He reached out to Jenny.

"Give him back, I have to go," he said desperately.

Jenny held the baby close.

"No, he's cheering me up," she said, looking at Gibbs for help.

Gibbs smacked DiNozzo in the back of the head.

Ziva answered the phone shouting.

"Gibbs! I moved to America so no one would kidnap my baby! Is he there? PUT HIM ON THE PHONE GIBBS I AM GOING TO KILL HIM!"

Gibbs thrust the phone at DiNozzo and turned back to Jenny, crouching down as he watched her look at the baby silently. He tilted his head and smirked at her, jerking a thumb at DiNozzo as the guilty-looking agent was chewed out by his wife.

"We're a good influence," he said smugly.

Jenny hit him, arching an eyebrow.

She and Gibbs were a dysfunctional mess to all bystanders and onlookers, an unstable relationship held together by a crumpled piece of paper and an expensive diamond on a chain—but as an insider she understood, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that there was no other way it would work.

* * *

><p><em>There is a tag to Shadow that follows, which takes place between the Epilogue and the end of Chapter 9. It will be posted next week, once my semester ends.<em>

_I certainly hope you've enjoyed this, and I appreciate every single review you've left. Until next time, then!  
><em>-_Alexandra_


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